


Dubious

by lilylashes



Series: Dubious [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilylashes/pseuds/lilylashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John says every time Sherlock says 'stop' he will do so immediately. Sherlock knows that there is always a point that most men say they can't stop. The idea that John might be so much more than what Sherlock has come to expect from other men intrigues him, so he begins an experiment in consent.</p><p>John begins to realise he is being tested, but he doesn't know why. (Does he ever when it comes to Sherlock?) All he knows is that something happened in Sherlock's past to make him think that what he wants or doesn't want doesn't matter in the bedroom.</p><p>Then the nightmares start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a LiveJournal prompt. The full prompt can be seen here:  
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=126785217&
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> xx lilylashes

PART I

               ‘Safeword?’

               ‘I don’t need one.’

               ‘Of course you need one, you prat.’

               ‘What ever for?’

               John stared curiously at the man before him; it wasn’t like him to be so thick. ‘Because I need to know if you want me to stop,’ he explained slowly, as if speaking to a child.

               ‘I could do without the patronisation John,’ Sherlock replied tartly, ‘I simply meant that if I am consenting at this stage in the game, that implies that I have no right to object to anything you do to me after.’

               John swallowed hard, ‘That’s- that’s not the way it works, Sherlock,’ he said quietly, a sick feeling sinking into his stomach. This really wasn’t the way he was expecting the conversation to go when Sherlock had casually mentioned bringing bondage into the bedroom, ‘You can always change your mind. ‘No means no’ and all that. What if I was to do something that you didn’t enjoy, or even worse, that caused you pain? I would never be able to forgive myself. It doesn’t matter how far along we are, if you tell someone to stop, they should stop.’

               Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and raised his chin defiantly, ‘I’m no tease, John,’ he said defensively, ‘And there’s always that point where the other person is too far gone to be able to stop. It’s easier and more considerate of one’s partner to just ride it out.’

               ‘ _Sherlock_ …’ John said, unable think of anything else to say. He shook his head and tried again, ‘No. In no way is it considered teasing to ask someone to stop if they’re hurting you or making you uncomfortable, and I would never expect you to endure something you didn’t enjoy simply out of consideration for _my_ feelings. I don’t know what wankers you’ve been with in the past, but never, _never_ will I be ‘too far gone’ to be concerned about your needs. If you don’t want a safeword, then just say ‘stop’. Any time, no matter if we’ve been going at it for five minutes or two hours, if you want me to stop, always tell me, even if what we’re doing is completely vanilla.’

               The detective observed him carefully, and finally nodded. ‘Very well. ‘Stop’ it is, then. I suppose it will be interesting to see how this turns out,’ he said, and then quickly stood and swept from the room, retreating to his bedroom and leaving a very anxious and heartsick John sitting alone in the living room to contemplate whatever could have happened to Sherlock in the past to make him think his own comfort didn’t matter.

~~~~~

               Sherlock took to this new idea of ‘stop’ like he did all his experiments; clinically, with several hypothesises and notes kept in hidden files. He knew that when it came to areas of sexuality and physical pleasure, mind over matter didn’t always apply.

               The first experiment took place on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Apparently London’s killers and crooks were too afraid of the cascading water to commit any interesting crimes, so Sherlock and John were enjoying a particularly uneventful afternoon of sitting on the sofa and watching mindless telly. Sherlock was stretched out, lying across the sofa with his head in John’s lap with John contentedly stroking his hair. It was one of those peaceful little moments that Sherlock always figured would be dull and boring, but in truth was anything but. And like any good experiment, it was best to start at square one.

               Tentatively he reached up and caught John’s hand in his own, and hesitated only briefly before bringing it to his lips and laying a soft kiss across the calloused knuckles. John’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly, and he pulled Sherlock’s hand to his own mouth and returned the gesture. From the vantage point of the doctor’s lap, Sherlock could feel as well as hear the heavier inhales and exhales, and subtle twitch of flesh underneath his head. It was the perfect time for his first experiment in John’s self-control, and, buoyed by the prospect of a challenge, he launched himself into a sitting position and turned to face John. He brought his other hand up to cup the side of the doctor’s face, and grinned when the other man all but nuzzled into the touch.

               John turned his face slightly to the side, and gently kissed Sherlock’s open palm on his face. Sherlock’s eyes flew to meet his, and he found himself being searched, probed… Examined. Slowly, deliberately, John brought his hands to Sherlock’s face, and leant in, his gaze never leaving Sherlock’s.

               The kiss was tender and unsure, soft and questioning, brilliant and altogether _right_. To John’s amazement and delight, Sherlock threw himself into the kiss eagerly, and it wasn’t long before they were both engaged in an enthusiastic and somewhat messy round of snogging. John happily felt like a teenager with his first boyfriend, making out in the basement before Mum got home.

               Except this time he was a grown man, and Mum was a two hour drive away.

               Sherlock nipped gently at John’s bottom lip and slipped his tongue in the other man’s mouth, darting it across his top row of teeth, and then withdrawing, applying the lightest bit of suction to John’s own tongue. A wave of pleasure rode up John’s spine and he moaned quietly and rolled over so he was straddling Sherlock’s body, his hands slipping under the detective’s button-up shirt, his finger’s skirting across the planes of his firm, pale chest. Sherlock allowed this for a moment or two, also noting the hardening of John’s erection as it strained painfully against his zip. It was now or never.

               ‘ _Stop_ ,’ he breathed softly, his eyes trained on John’s, cataloguing the man’s every reaction. To his wonder, John pulled away immediately, only the briefest look of surprise crossing his face. He swallowed hard and let out a rough exhale, but withdrew his hands from Sherlock’s chest and swung his leg back over the detective’s body so he was sitting next to, instead of over him. Wordlessly, he adjusted his trousers and laid an arm across Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him closer so he could plant a kiss on the other man’s temple.

               ‘I’m sorry, love,’ John said, into Sherlock’s hair, ‘I suppose I got a bit carried away.’

               Sherlock nodded his acceptance, and leaned into the kiss. He snuggled into John’s side and closed his eyes thoughtfully. John had actually stopped, without hesitation, anger or resentment. Interesting, indeed.

               Even more interesting would be what happened during stage two of the experiment.

~~~~~

               Stage two took place a week or so later, on a similarly mundane weekday. A fervent round of necking on the sofa slowly progressed to a heated and clumsy trip up to John’s bedroom. They bumped into walls and railings and tripped over stray shoes and newspapers, but it mattered little as their hands never left the other’s body, and their lips were likewise without reprieve. John reached behind himself blindly, fumbling with the doorknob, and he and Sherlock stumbled into his room together, each still heartily engaged in snogging the other senseless.

               Somehow they made it over to John’s bed, and Sherlock found himself gently eased down onto the doctor’s mattress. He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes as John began kissing his throat hungrily. It felt amazing. His own hands drifted along John’s body, softly, tentatively, until he suddenly grasped the hem of John’s jumper and pulled it up and over his head. John pulled back, panting, his eyes dark with arousal and desire.

               ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, huskily, staring intently down at Sherlock. When the detective nodded, he let out a low groan and set to work undoing the buttons of Sherlock’s own shirt, revelling in the gradual parting of the fabric that revealed Sherlock’s broad chest. He caught sight of the other man’s pectorals and nipples, and without thinking, lowered himself to lavish tender attention to them. Sherlock moaned beautifully and threaded his fingers through John’s hair, his back arching and his eyes closed in pure bliss. It had never felt like this before when he’d allowed others to touch him.

               Without disturbing John’s eager ministrations, Sherlock reached down, almost shyly, and began working on the doctor’s belt buckle and the zip of his trousers. John’s eyes sprang open and flew to Sherlock’s face. The detective’s eyes were closed, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted in a deliciously sensual display that nearly undid John right then and there. When Sherlock finally won the battle against John’s belt, he let out a triumphant noise that seemed to come from somewhere impossibly deep within him. John shimmied out of his trousers eagerly, and turned his attention lower to Sherlock’s own (tantalisingly tight) trousers. He made quick work of the button and zip and pulled them downwards to reveal Sherlock’s lean, muscled thighs. The noises that came from him could hardly be called human anymore.

               Sherlock nearly gave in to the wonderful, wonderful heat flooding below his waist until he remembered his experiment. He groaned again, but this time out of frustration moreso than desire. He waited until John’s hand had curled around his erection, and he raised a shaking hand to return the favour, relishing how hot and heavy John felt in his hand. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he began fisting John’s cock, bringing his other hand around to fondle his testicles and coax the man to full hardness.

               John responded in kind, teasing and stroking Sherlock, nipping lightly at his earlobe and the side of his neck. He was on fire; through half closed eyes, he watched the detective’s skilled and nimble fingers, and was genuinely surprised that they didn’t leave a trail of flames and burning flesh in their wake.

               He was so happily, hungrily immersed in these amazing sensations, and eagerly doing his best to reciprocate, that he almost didn’t realise when Sherlock’s moans turned into words. Embarrassingly, it took a moment for his brain to acknowledge that the sounds it was hearing were English, and an even longer moment for it to compute the meaning of the words.

               ‘Stop, please. Stop,’ Sherlock was saying, almost pleading, and John’s eyes sprang open at once. Sherlock gazed up at him, his face still flushed, pupils blown wide open with desire, and something else… Was that fear? He immediately pulled away from the detective and stifled a groan as he gently pulled Sherlock’s hands from his lower body, trying so hard to be the idiot Sherlock always claimed he was, and pretend not to notice how the slender, pale hands were trembling.

               ‘Sherlock…’ John said quietly, unsure of what to say next. He felt strongly compelled to apologise, but didn’t know if that would make things worse. Sherlock loathed admitting to being human, and being forced to acknowledge any sort of emotion would certainly qualify (in his mind, at least) as a human weakness.

               Sherlock took a moment to compose himself, completely baffled at how he had been taken from the height of pleasure to clinical, scientific detachment, ready to collect more date for his experiment, to a quivering, nonsensical mess. Logically he knew it was because he’d just suffered a flashback, and that that was enough to undo anyone, but that did nothing to ease his growing frustration. Maybe the others had been right – maybe he truly was a freak, with no chance of ever being normal. Maybe he was a fool to think that he could try to pretend to be normal for John.

               Oh, shit. John.

               The doctor was staring at him with mounting concern, looking as though he had about a hundred things he wanted to say, but the words to verbalise none of them. For the first time ever, Sherlock felt as though perhaps he should offer some sort of explanation – that’s what people did when they upset someone, wasn’t it? – except he had no desire to delve into the deepest, darkest corners of his past, so he instead opted for a greatly simplified, watered down explanation.

               ‘I… I didn’t know if you were going to stop this time,’ Sherlock stated, clearing his throat and forcing himself to look directly into John’s eyes. Understanding flooded them – of course John would understand what just happened; he had suffered more than his fair share of flashbacks, even if he didn’t know exactly what the painful memory entailed, he would surely pick up on the signs – and John moved slowly to put his arms around Sherlock.

               He held him tight, and laid a soft kiss against the detective’s temple.

               ‘I will always, always stop when you ask me to. Always,’ John promised quietly. His heart clenched at the uncharacteristic vulnerability he saw in Sherlock’s face, and knew that at some point, they would have to have a discussion, _the_ discussion, the serious discussion as to what had happened however many days, months, years ago that resulted in the detective being so damaged, but for the moment, all he wanted to do was hold the other man, and tell him over and over the things that should have never needed explaining.

~~~~~

               Stage two was complete, and despite being enormously more complicated than Sherlock had originally anticipated, he was all in all pleased with the data he’d collected. (He would have to sort through the emotions another time.)

               Now if only he could force his heart and mind to calm down enough to move on to stage three.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bit is the morning after where Part I leaves off. 
> 
> After that, it begins to delve into Sherlock's past. Kind of got a bit off track, so apologies. It is also longer than I expected, so apologies twice.
> 
> It may seem like we're getting a bit off track from the original prompt, but things will come full circle, I promise.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> xx lilylashes

PART II

               _‘Stop,’ he begged brokenly into his sodden pillow like a mantra, ‘Please, stop. Please, stop. Please.’_

_Over and over he murmured those two words in every imaginable combination, but to no avail. Nothing would or could lessen the pain, loosen the bruising grip on his slender hips, staunch the earnest flow of tears down his flushed cheeks. And nothing should. He’d already given his consent at the other side of the night – hours ago. He reminded himself of this stupid decision as he squeezed his eyes closed against the onslaught of burning discomfort he’d brought on himself._

_He was so much more than this huddling mess of tears and sweat and snot. If his dear Mummy could see her darling boy now – trussed up like a common whore, pleading, crying – she’d likely die from shock (or mortification.)_

_He brought one of his hands up to his mouth and bit down hard on the tender skin between his thumb and index finger. The thrusts had become especially brutal, and the self-inflicted wound was the only thing he could think of to do to prevent a total and complete collapse. The sharp pain kept him present. He stopped begging for a premature end to the pain, and instead just prayed it would end soon._

_He was so much more than this._

_Finally, blessedly, the thrusting became more and more erratic and he knew what would happen next. A deceptively gentle hand reached around and grasped his half-hard cock, stroking it to fullness. Only then did the thrusts begin to angle upwards, targeting his prostate, and bringing him any sort of pleasure._

_He was so much more…_

_Lies. He came with a howl, his teeth loosening on his hand, his eyelids still crammed obstinately closed. Semen shot across the sheet beneath him, and he was pushed further down into the mess._

_Despair. The cock in his arse sped up to an even more frantic pace, and then he felt the tell-tale warmth flood him, and he knew it was finally over._

_Emptiness. His arse ached as the now flaccid penis pulled out from it. He felt come dribbling down the back of his thighs, and an uncomfortable stickiness from his own climax under his stomach, which was still pinned down on the bed._

_He was nothing more than this._

_Though every fibre of his being rebelled against the action, he forced himself to turn his head to look up at the man who had just finished his assault._

_Steel blue eyes flickered down to meet him, impassive and cold. John’s face betrayed no emotion as Sherlock began to scream._

               The scream caught in his throat as Sherlock battled his way back to consciousness, but found himself stuck in limbo. His eyes had flown open, and part of his mind acknowledged that he was safe, in John’s bed at Baker St., but the other part stayed in that dreamlike place that kept his body outside of his control. Sleep paralysis, then. Sherlock hated this more than any nightmare his twisted subconscious could create because it left him feeling horrifically helpless when his body refused to respond to even the simplest commands, such as _wake up_ or _calm down_.

               He hadn’t suffered one of these infernal episodes with sleep paralysis in years – not since his last attempt at an intimate encounter, he supposed. (Sometimes he wondered if he would ever be able to engage in any sort of sexual activity without having to worry about having some sort of psychotic episode, whether it be a flashback, or night terror or even just his own twisted version of subdrop after even the most vanilla of encounters. To him, sex had always been an act of submission, not only to his partner(s), but to himself as well, and as a result, he often felt an unnamed distress after he came down from the high, but that was a quandary for another day.)

               Sherlock pushed himself to focus all his mental energy on forcing himself awake. This was the part he loathed the most, because there was no scientific rhyme or reason to how long it would take him to finally shake himself awake. Fortunately this time, he was conscious within moments, and was able to cut off the scream before it reached fruition.

               Unfortunately, however, it wasn’t before John’s eyes sprang open, alert and searching for the imminent threat. Even though it had been years since Afghanistan, he still hadn’t outgrown the habit of sleeping like a soldier, that is to say, sleeping deeply enough to obtain real rest in however short an amount of time, but lightly enough that he could go from passed out to on guard in mere seconds.

               Despite himself, Sherlock’s hand flew to his mouth as if he could belatedly stifle the sound, or recall it to his throat. Cursing himself, he dropped his hand immediately, but of course the action had already caught John’s attention. The doctor turned his concerned gaze to him, and Sherlock once again found himself compelled to offer some sort of explanation, if only so the worry lines across John’s forehead would smooth out. John didn’t need to be worrying about something so paltry as Sherlock’s emotional shortcomings. Frustrated, Sherlock threw himself back against the pillows and covered his face with his hands. Damn it all.

               However, John – wonderful, damaged, compassionate John – understood without explanation, and gently pulled Sherlock’s hands from his face and laid a soft kiss on the back of each hand in turn.

               ‘Bad dreams?’ he asked between kisses. Sherlock snorted at the childish terminology, but then nodded. This was all new to him, admitting to and letting another see his weakness, and he wasn’t quite sure he liked it.

               John drew Sherlock tighter into his arms and nuzzled the back of his neck. ‘Want to talk about it?’ he asked, his breath tickling Sherlock’s neck and causing pleasant goosepimples to spring up all down his arms.

               ‘Of course not, John,’ Sherlock replied loftily, though he did find himself pushing back into the embrace, and enjoying the sensation of John’s arms flexing automatically around him, ‘It was nothing.’

               John pulled away and sat up slightly so he was looking down at the detective, sleep still evident in his eyes, and his blonde hair sticking up in an endearing pre-shower morning mess. He smiled sleepily, a flicker of sadness in his eyes, but knew better than to press the issue.

               ‘I know it wasn’t ‘nothing’,’ he murmured quietly, once again bringing Sherlock’s hand to his lips, ‘But you don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want to. Just know that if you ever do want to, I will always listen. I hope someday you do.’

               Sherlock didn’t respond; just let himself relish the tenderness of John’s ministrations. Gentle, yielding hands that sought only to bring pleasure and comfort… Well that was another thing that was relatively new to him, but this one he was sure he liked.

~~~~~

               Sherlock liked to look at things logically, clinically, from a scientific point of view. Emotions were messy, generally unnecessary things, and typically he found little use for them. He could easily think things through from Point A to Point B and so on and so forth, and map out cause and effect as easily as if he were the author of a story, but the emotional side oft left him baffled, and Sherlock Holmes was not a man who enjoyed being baffled.

               Once John and Sherlock had decided to get up for the day, Sherlock retreated to the bathroom and drew himself a hot bath. It was one of the few remnants of his childhood he had carried into adulthood. When he was no more than a wisp of boy, though his size was terribly misleading in relation to the mayhem he could cause in the old manor house, one blessed day, one of his nannies had figured out that the easiest way to pacify the younger Holmes brother when he was in a particularly difficult temperament was to let him sit in the hot water in the bathtub until he was calm enough to face the world again. Many, many mornings, afternoons, evenings or nights were spend in the old claw footed bathtub in his wing of Holmes House, the sweet smelling soaps and soothing bath oils mingling, and the steamy, quiet atmosphere being enough to bring him back down to Earth when the tedium of everyday life caused him to retreat into his brilliant and sometimes very dark mind. He would emerge hours later from the bathroom, pink and wrinkled from the water, but complacent and calm.

               On that particular morning, Sherlock locked himself in the bathroom, not caring that he was preventing John from his usual routine of brushing teeth and showering and all those other mundane hygienic tasks that he performed like clockwork every morning. Sherlock sank into the hot water and moodily began mentally charting the progression of his latest experiment, and trying to come up with logical theories on how it had been thrown so off course.

               When John had first brought up the ridiculous notion of a safeword, Sherlock had scoffed and been mildly insulted. As he had said to John at the time: he was no tease. ( _At least not anymore_.) Though his experience with relationships and sexuality was limited, what he had learned, he had certainly learned thoroughly enough to retain information on how to be a considerate lover. ( _Learned, been trained, what difference was it, really?_ )

               He thought back to his first excursion into the ever-so-confusing world of sexual interaction with another human being, back when he was considerably younger, slightly less jaded, but no less clever. It was in his first year of uni that he’d met Liam in the library after Sebastian had introduced them.

( _Sebastian had loved bringing people to him so he could perform his ‘little trick’, and perform he did. Sometimes he felt like a trained monkey, putting on a show whenever Seb demanded one, but it was a small price to pay for the companionship, because despite his aloof persona, that first year away from home found him surprisingly and desperately lonely. Though he’d never had friends during his school years, he had always had a constant rotation of nannies, caretakers, gardeners, cooks, maids and chauffeurs who didn’t seem to mind his company_.)

               Liam had been intelligent, though nowhere near as brilliant as Sherlock. He had been handsome, the perfect storm of good breeding and an enviable wardrobe. He had been charming and funny, and by some miracle, found Sherlock as interesting as Sherlock found him. Most of the dullards that Sebastian brought around stormed away in various degrees of offence, usually after telling Sherlock to _sod_ / _piss_ / _fuck_ _off_ or _go to hell_ or sometimes just the boring _ugh, freak_ , but Liam had been different. He had had that moment of stunned disbelief like they all did, but as Sherlock stared at the ground, bracing himself for the verbal abuse, instead he had taken a hand and gently laid a finger under Sherlock’s chin, tilted his face upwards, and used the words _amazing_ and _fascinating_ to describe him. After that, Liam began coming around more often, and sometimes without Sebastian, to which Sherlock did not object. He had been chivalrous, and courted Sherlock like something out of one of those Victorian romance novels that Mummy adored. For the first time in his life, Sherlock thought he might actually be worthy of love.

               Though Liam was certainly more experienced than Sherlock, he took things slowly, wonderfully, deliciously slowly. It was over a month before he had even offered Sherlock his first kiss. It was raining, and the pair of them were coming back from another late night in the chemistry lab. (Liam was no scientist, but seemed to enjoy watching Sherlock in his lab coat and goggles, mumbling a mile a minute about compounds and formulas and other things Liam didn’t understand.) The rain was coming down heavily, and the two of them raced along the walkways, holding their satchels over their heads with one hand, and holding tightly to one another with the other. Liam walked Sherlock to his door, water dripping from his hair into his startling green eyes, and he had just done it. Kissed Sherlock softly and sweetly, and murmured _good night_ before turning and walking away, this time not bothering to shield himself from the rain. Sherlock had stood outside his door for another five minutes, watching Liam’s retreating figure, his fingers brushing over the spot on his lips where Liam’s had been only moments before.

               Three months later, they made love for the first time. Liam had been gentle and attentive, and Sherlock felt like the most cherished person in the world. There hadn’t been candlelight and roses or any of that other sentimental nonsense, but it had been beautiful and special and incredible. The loneliness he’d felt in the beginning of the year was a far distant memory, easily replaced by ones of Liam’s hands, Liam’s skin, Liam’s lips. The words _I love you_ tumbled from Sherlock’s mouth that night, and though Liam hadn’t said them back, he had smiled and kissed Sherlock so sweetly (and in so many places) that it was okay.

               At six months, they moved in together. Mummy hadn’t been pleased about that one, and Mycroft had offered his unsolicited two cents, but after they both met Liam and were likewise enchanted, they relented and helped them find an affordable flat near the campus.

               It wasn’t for another four months after that, after Sherlock and Liam had been together ten months that things truly took a turn for the worse. It was hard to say what exactly changed between them, and really, it had been a slow progression, as things like that usually are – a harsh word here, a disdainful look there, a missed dinner date or an unmistakeable eye roll. Liam’s tolerance for Sherlock’s eccentricities seemed to be wearing thin, but the more Liam pulled away, the more tightly Sherlock tried to cling to him, which only served to annoy Liam further. Sherlock tried valiantly to change himself, to become someone more commonplace, more _normal_ , but despite his best efforts, something, some evidence of his inner _freak_ would always show through. Many nights now, Sherlock found himself alone and miserable once again, only this time it was worse because this time he knew what he was missing. Liam began going to pubs and parties without him, sometimes coming home well after midnight or other nights he didn’t come home at all.  Sometimes he came home drunk and aroused and he and Sherlock had mad, passionate sex, and it seemed like things were almost right again.

               The first time Liam came home high was the first night he was not gentle and attentive to Sherlock. It was painful, and frightening, and the next morning Liam apologised profusely, and Sherlock forgave him.

               The second time Liam came home high was the first time he made Sherlock bleed.

               The third time he didn’t bother to apologise the morning after.

               Nor any other time after that.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Part III... I realise that it deviated from the experiment a bit, but it will definitely continue later in the story. 
> 
> I was previously thinking that I was going to make this a longer story, having to do with an in-depth look into Sherlock's past, but I think I ultimately decided that instead I'm going to wrap this one up within a few more installments, and in the meantime start a companion piece detailing Sherlock's history in this semi-AU. Possibly. Thoughts?
> 
> I also forgot to mention (in case it's not glaringly obvious!) that this story is completely un-beta'ed, and semi-un-Brit picked. (I do have a lovely person who has been helping me with language and cultural aspects, but it's mainly for general knowledge -- I don't necessarily want him to know what the knowledge is going towards, lol.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> xx lilylashes
> 
> PS: I hate to be one of 'those' people, but... Let me just say this: comments and kudos are like crack. Or cocaine. 7%. Just saying.

PART III

               A quiet knock interrupted Sherlock’s brooding and his head snapped towards the door. He did not answer, but the splashing of displaced water must have given him away because moments later, John’s voice came through the door.

               ‘Sherlock?’ he asked unnecessarily, though he didn’t wait for a response, ‘I don’t mean to interrupt your bath, but I do need to get in there at some point. It’s nearly ten, and I have to be at the clinic by noon. No immediate rush, but I don’t think anyone will appreciate it if I show up without having at least brushed my teeth.’ Sherlock still didn’t respond, and he heard John sigh, ‘Listen, we don’t have to talk about anything right now, but I think we should eventually. Maybe we should even… Take a break from the physical side of things until-’

               There was a great swell of water, some of which seeped out from under the door. Before John even had a chance to say anything about it, he found himself face to face with a very wet, very angry, very _naked_ Sherlock Holmes.

               ‘Don’t you _dare_ ,’ the detective said furiously, ‘Even _think_ about finishing that _fucking_ sentence.’

               John quickly closed his mouth, which had fallen open as a result of the sudden appearance of Sherlock’s glistening, heaving, _naked_ (again, the word seemed to be highlighted, bolded, italicised, underlined and capitalised in John’s brain) chest. Inappropriate thoughts about the detective’s nipples came and went when John forced himself to focus on the angry words spilling from Sherlock’s mouth. A long string of arguments and expletives were making themselves known before John cut him off with a quick kiss.

               ‘I’m just saying, love… I still want to be with you so much – oh God, more than anything – but I don’t want to rush you into anything you’re not comfortable with or ready for. That’s not to say we can’t eventually be intimate-’ John started, but this time it was Sherlock’s turn to interrupt.

               ‘ _Stop_ ,’ he ordered, glaring down at John, water still falling in droplets from his wet curls, ‘None of this nonsense. If we must discuss this, then so be it, but you said it was up to me when we go forward, or when we don’t, and right now I am _telling_ you to _stop_ _speaking_ and let me kiss you.’

               John could only nod mutely, strangely moved at how vehemently and passionately Sherlock spoke these words, and responded tenderly and attentively when Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s. The kiss lasted only moments, but still left both men somewhat lightheaded and they stood rather awkwardly when they did finally pull apart.

               ‘Well,’ Sherlock said huskily, at long last, ‘I suppose you really should brush your teeth then.’

               John blushed and clasped a hand to his mouth, ‘Oh God, did I stink?’ he asked before he could stop himself. Sherlock laughed, and it was a glorious sound.

               ‘No, love,’ he replied, using the term of endearment for the first time, and not completely disliking how it sounded coming from his mouth, ‘But it’s now after ten and after last night I’m going to assume you might need some extra time in the shower.’ John turned an even deeper shade of scarlet before looking up to Sherlock’s face to see his smirk.

               ‘Okay, wanker,’ John said playfully, and reached across Sherlock to grab a towel hanging just inside the bathroom. He threw it at the detective and placed one more kiss on the side of his jaw, ‘Here. Cover up before you make it impossible for me to leave the shower _or_ the flat today.’

               Sherlock obligingly wrapped the towel around his waist and turned to leave. When he reached the top of the stairs he turned back to John who was still staring after the detective, an expression on his face that was a mix between sadness and helplessness. John recovered quickly, but not before Sherlock mentally catalogued every crease in his brow and line of sorrow on his face. He hated that look more than anything.

               ‘Mind- mind the water on the floor,’ Sherlock instructed John, his voice breaking slightly, ‘Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.’ He turned again and made his way down the stairs.

               John nodded though he knew the detective couldn’t see him, and a moment later Sherlock heard the door close and the water run in the sink as John began brushing his teeth.

~~~~~

               When John emerged twenty minutes later, freshly brushed and showered. Despite Sherlock’s insinuation, today’s shower had consisted of nothing more than washing and rinsing. The detective’s assumption hadn’t been entirely wrong; John had in fact, intended to take care of some pent up tension during his time alone in the bathroom, but that was before Sherlock had barricaded himself in the bathroom and taken one of his brooding baths. John didn’t need Sherlock’s genius or skill at deduction to realise that it was a result of the incident from the previous night, and that whatever going on in Sherlock’s brain at the time was very _abitnotgood_.

               The worst part was the not knowing. It was painfully, painfully obvious that something had happened to Sherlock at some point in his past that caused his confusing, and frankly, heartbreaking, notions on consent and what was appropriate to expect from one’s significant other. John could already tell he was being tested with the whole _stop_ phenomenon, and he’d vowed to himself to be especially mindful of all the things Sherlock said and didn’t say when they were being intimate. ( _Not that this was really any different than John’s standard moral code. His parents raised him to respect women (the interest in male lovers came later) and that ‘no’ absolutely, undoubtedly and unreservedly always meant ‘no’. Fortunately for him, he’d never put his partners in a position where they would need to tell him ‘no’ – he’d always been able to anticipate what was wanted from him, and what would be too far. He was a kind, gentle, caring, attentive lover, and had always been given the same courtesy in return. To know that Sherlock had never experienced these things caused a pain in his chest that was most akin to the feeling one gets when a piece of foil is bitten with a tooth that has a filling – sharp, tingling, and alarming_.)

               John was also no stranger to the symptoms of PTSD, regardless of what Mycroft thought about the file he had pilfered from Ella’s office. Before Baker Street, very rarely did a week pass without some sort of flashback or nightmare. He’d learned the tell-tale signs of these effects from looking in his own badly lit bathroom mirror, and there was no doubt in his mind that over the last twenty-four hours, Sherlock has suffered both of them. This frightened him more than anything else – not the fact that the detective had experienced them, but what could have happened to him to affect him so. Sherlock was nothing, if not emotionally unflappable, and the idea that some long dormant memory had been dredged up by something John had done was nearly enough to break him. It seemed like such an unlikely theory, that the impenetrable Sherlock Holmes could have something as pedestrian as post-traumatic stress disorder, that John was reluctant to even think it, and knew he would never say the words out loud to Sherlock because surely the look of disdain on his face would be enough to knock him into next week.

               Dressing took longer than usual, because John found himself staring blankly into his closet for several long moments while he contemplated these dark thoughts about the man waiting for him downstairs. He finally shook himself from his reverie when he happened to glance at the clock and saw that it was now eleven o’clock, and he was a fifteen minute cab ride from the clinic. Quickly selecting a button up shirt at random, he flung it around himself, and threw the rest of his clothes on in much the same way. He fumbled with the buttons as he thumped his way down the stairs into the kitchen.

               He fully expecting to see Sherlock still in his dressing gown, stretched out across the sofa, so it came as quite a shock when he found the detective fully dressed in one of his usual suits, sitting at the kitchen table with two steaming cups of tea before him. John made his way to the table, and took the chair and mug opposite Sherlock’s, and brought the cup to his lips, unsure of what else to do.

( _Sherlock was dreadful at making tea, and the first sip confirmed John’s suspicions – it had been terribly scalded, and tragically over steeped. However, John couldn’t remember the last time Sherlock had made him a cuppa, so he stayed put and forced down the vile concoction, reminding himself sternly that it was most definitely the thought that counted_.)

               They sat in an awkward silence for several long minutes before John could bear it no longer. Desperate for something to say, but lacking the ability to call any sort of intelligent words to mind, he opened his mouth several times, before closing it again helplessly almost immediately. He tried to save face by taking another sip of his tea, but finally the horrid bitterness defeated him, and he set the mug back on the table with a grim thump. Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to pretend to drink his.

               ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, love,’ John finally said, trying to sound far more lighthearted than he genuinely felt, ‘But you really are rubbish at making tea. I’m surprised Mycroft hasn’t tried to have your British citizenship revoked.’ It was a pitiful attempt at humour, but Sherlock granted him a small half smile before he resumed his study of the kitchen table top, running his finger along the deep groove that had come from the tip of a very sharp sword.

               Sherlock felt like an idiot. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling so unnaturally, unnecessarily, and unexplainably vulnerable. This was precisely why he disregarded his emotions, and kept his mind always two or more steps ahead of the rest of the world. He knew that he’d never dealt with the things that had happened to him at uni and the following years, but it had never seemed to matter much. First there was loneliness, then there was Liam. Then there was cocaine, and then several other insignificant ‘relationships’ (for lack of a better word) with people whose names he had either never known or deleted, then more cocaine, then Victor, then an overdose of cocaine, and then Lestrade and the Work.

               Once the Work came along, none of the other bits seemed to matter. Reflectively, he realised he could actually pinpoint the moment his mind started going into denial over the things that had occurred – like a broken record might skip over a scratch in the vinyl, so did his mind begin to skip over those incidents from his past. Even when he tried to recall them, tried to sort them into nice little labelled and compartmentalised boxes in his Mind Palace, he found his brain violently rebelling against reliving the experiences until he finally surrendered to his subconscious, and instead opted to shove everything into one great file entitled ‘ _FREAK_ ’ and left it alone. He’d done quite well with that, too, and buried it deep in the foundation of his Mind Palace, making it an integral part of the person he’d become, but so far beneath the surface that he didn’t have to openly acknowledge or try to make sense of it.

               Until John.

               John was different. John called him _amazing_ and _fascinating_ and _brilliant_ , and didn’t need more than a smile in return. He didn’t even expect Sherlock to remember to pick up milk from Tesco, or remember that it was his turn to clean the bathroom. He’d watched Sherlock from a distance, and Sherlock had watched John watching him. It was puzzling and pleasing, and when the two men had confronted their feelings and begun discussing proceeding with their relationship, it had been John who had wanted to take things slowly because he said there was no rush. When Sherlock had cheekily made a comment about deviant tastes in the bedroom, John hadn’t judged him, just wanted to know what his ‘safeword’ was, which Sherlock found borderline insulting. And thus began the ‘stop’ experiment which was really more about John’s physical limits than Sherlock’s.

               Apparently, however, it was Sherlock’s mental limits that were being tested, and this time, instead of shoving away problems, he thought perhaps he should begin to confront them. Not all of them, of course, and he knew there were some things he would never let John bear witness to, but he did feel as though he owed John some sort of explanation. John had always been resolutely open with him about everything (even to the point where Sherlock wanted to tell him again to ‘stop inflicting his opinions on the world’, but the last time he’d said then, John had left him for Sarah Sawyer’s sofa, and then 221B had gotten blown up), and Sherlock felt that he might be obligated to return the favour.

               Sherlock waited a moment after John made his quip about the tea, then took a deep breath to steady himself.

               ‘I know you want me to want to talk about… Things, but I don’t.’ he said quietly, his finger still tracing the imperfections in the table top, ‘However I do-,’ he cleared his throat, ‘I do _want_ to want to talk about things, because I think it would be beneficial to us if we are determined to change the nature of our relationship, and also I feel like you deserve to know what exactly you’re getting yourself into. I’m not going to tell you everything, nor should you expect me to, but I suppose there are some things you should be aware of.’ He took a deep breath, trying to think of the most precise way to phrase his thoughts that wouldn’t lead to questions he had no desire to answer. ‘When I was at university, I was involved with another man, and he was not very kind to me towards the end. Much foolishness resulted from that relationship, and though I thought I had dealt with this all many years ago, it turns out I… Was wrong. A bit.’

               The words sounded foreign coming from Sherlock’s mouth, and he made a face, already wishing he could delete them, but John didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he took one hand and laid it over Sherlock’s, stopping the detective’s compulsive tracing of the table’s scratches, and pulling his mobile from his pocket with the other. Sherlock didn’t look up as John dialled with one hand and waited as the other line rang in his ear.

               ‘Hello, Sarah?’ he asked, his gaze never leaving Sherlock for a moment, ‘This is John Watson. I just wanted to let you know that unfortunately I won’t be able to make it to the clinic today. Something’s come up’ he paused, and let out a low, sad chuckle, ‘Yes, something with Sherlock. That’s exactly right.’


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Part IV... I have a feeling that this story is going to wrap up pretty soon, but I have actually started mapping out a companion piece that goes more in depth with Sherlock's experiences with Liam and everything thereafter. 
> 
> I also wanted to say thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has shown interest in this story and the other bits and pieces I have up here. I got scared off of fanfiction on another fandom a few years back, and was so terribly nervous about posting here, especially in regards to something as incredible as Sherlock that I almost didn't bother. I'm so glad I did, because nothing makes my day quite like getting those emails from AO3 saying that someone commented or gave kudos. Thank you so much.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> xx lilylashes

PART IV

               So they talked. They talked well past noon, so it was a good thing John had called off of the clinic, and they talked well past dinner time, so it was also a good thing that John put a hold on the conversation to put in a call for takeaway to be delivered to them. By that time, Sherlock looked exhausted and even paler than usual. Though he was no stranger to speaking for an extended period of time, it was certainly the first time he had ever been involved in a personal conversation for that long.

               True to his word, he had not told John everything, but the bits and pieces of his past that John had managed to drag out of him were enough that even though John was nowhere near as intuitive as Sherlock, he was still able to get a general idea of the issues Sherlock so awkwardly and vaguely skirted around.

               It made John want to kill someone.

               Vivid mental images ambushed him, and it took every bit of military training he had ever received to keep his face neutral and his hands from shaking with rage. After living with Sherlock for as long as he had, he knew that the quickest way to keep the detective from opening up further would be for John to have his emotions explode all over the place.

               Still…

               The idea of a young, naïve Sherlock, so desperate for love and attention that he would subject himself to pain and humiliation and all manner of other evil things, made John want to weep. Even more heartbreaking was the fact that Sherlock seemed to think what he’d gone through was unpleasant, yes, but ultimately in a different category as the cases they saw all too often of ravaged young women or broken, bruised bodies.

               He had willingly entered the relationship, willingly gone to bed with the bastard, willingly, willingly, willingly, and there was no convincing him of otherwise. He was a class unto himself in his own mind – part of him was deeply ashamed and clearly traumatised about what he had gone through, but another part seemed to think he was unworthy of harbouring such feelings, that he didn’t deserve to be so affected because, according to Sherlock, everything had been of his own accord.

               The conversation had been stilted and awkward, and John had so many questions – some medical and some definitely not – but the carefully blank look on Sherlock’s face as he described one assault or another somehow made it impossible for John to verbalise these thoughts.

               At one point, when Sherlock had described the first time he had tried telling the bastard ( _John refused to refer to him by name even within the confines of his own mind. Giving the bastard a name only humanised him, and the things he had done were so far from humane,_ ) _no_ , that he _wanted to stop_ , he had been cruelly laughed at and reminded that Sherlock was his _boyfriend_ , damnit, and that he should _stop being a_ _whiny git_ and _learn to just_ _enjoy himself,_  and that the bastard was _so close, couldn’t Sherlock just man up for a few more minutes_ , John had gripped the table hard enough that his knuckles shone white in the dim kitchen light, and he had to force himself to remember to breathe and loosen his grip, lest he further damage the already scratched and nicked wood.

               ‘Sherlock, you do realise that what you are describing is considered, without argument, rape, don’t you?’ John had asked once he was sure he could keep his anger from colouring his tone or making his voice shake.

               Sherlock lowered his gaze to table and mumbled something unintelligible about it _not being that big of a deal_ and that it _wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever done_ , which, if anything, made John feel even worse.

               Fortunately for John (and his kitchen table), the Chinese take away delivery boy had buzzed up at exactly that moment, and prevented the inevitable explosion of emotions all over 221B. In what was more clearly evidence of Sherlock’s numb emotional state than anything the detective had yet revealed, he grabbed his wallet and mutely went down the stairs to pay for dinner without John having to bed, bargain or threaten. During those few moments Sherlock was gone, John covered his face with his hands and tried to collect his thoughts. He half listened to the conversation between Sherlock and the delivery boy through the semi ajar door, and the lack of scathing remarks from Sherlock or tears, threats, curses or thrown objects from the delivery boy left him feeling strangely sad.

               Sherlock returned moments later, and John forced himself to look up and made a painful attempt at a smile. Sherlock scowled and set the take away containers down on the table with a haphazard thud. One of the containers broke open, soggy noodles slowly creeping out of the cardboard dish onto the tabletop. Sherlock glared at them, refusing to look at John.

               ‘Don’t give me that look,’ he warned angrily, ‘I disclosed these things to you because I was under the impression that that’s what people in a relationship do, not to attain some idiotic, undeserved pity from you or have you look at me like I am some sort of victim. _I am fine_.’

               For one wild moment, John fought the urge to laugh, because it looked as though Sherlock was scolding the sodden pile of Chinese noodles, but when Sherlock lifted his gaze to John’s face, all traces of humour vanished. Despite Sherlock’s vehement words, there was a shadow of something in his grey eyes that John had never seen before, or maybe he was just noticing for the first time because now he knew to look for it.

               John wanted to say that Sherlock wasn’t fine, that someone who suffered flashbacks and nightmares and was so clearly hurting was anything but fine, but not only would that make him a horrendous hypocrite, it would also most assuredly slam shut the door on any hope John had of ever getting Sherlock to truly open up to him and let him in. He wanted to say that Sherlock deserved so much better than he had ever received, that he deserved to be cherished and all those other grotesque romantic words that Sherlock would roll his eyes at. He wanted to say he was sorry, so, so sorry, and that he wanted to kiss away the ghost of every cut, bruise and track mark that had ever marred Sherlock’s pale skin, but all he said was:

               ‘Just so you know, you can eat those bloody noodles you just knocked over. I’m not eating anything that’s touched this table – knowing you, it’s probably covered in arsenic or something.’

               Sherlock finally smiled.

~~~~~

               After that, on the surface, the rest of the night progressed as per usual. Sherlock picked at his arsenic noodles, John stole the last egg roll, and they argued over Sherlock’s ability to predict the fortune cookies’ messages. (He’d actually been surprisingly accurate this time.) After dinner, they lounged about on the sofa, John stretched out with Sherlock laying against him, his back to John’s chest. They watched some crap telly and it was almost as though the day’s lengthy conversation had never taken place.  On the surface, all was well.

               It wasn’t until Sherlock’s hand started drifting towards John’s belt that things began to deteriorate. John froze, his breath getting caught in his chest, which surely didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock. However, the detective determinedly ignored John’s reaction and stubbornly let his hand graze across John’s crotch. John could almost picture Sherlock’s smirk as he felt the involuntary jump of flesh beneath his trousers.

               As if this was all the encouragement he needed, Sherlock sprang down from the sofa and knelt on the floor before John. Deft fingers had John’s belt unbuckled and his trousers unzipped before John even had a chance to protest. Caught between the delicious feeling of Sherlock’s hands skimming the waistband of his boxers, and slight dread when he tried to guess what might be running through Sherlock’s mind at the moment, John sat up and caught his wrist before his resistance was weakened further.

               ‘Sherlock…’ he began, but the other man launched upwards, quickly covered his mouth with his own and engulfed him in a searing kiss that made holding on to his resolve a difficult task indeed. Sherlock’s tongue probed his mouth curiously as though Sherlock was on an exploration of the inside of John’s mouth (which he probably was). He applied gentle suction to John’s tongue and nipped at it lightly, and before his left hand dove into John’s boxers, and his right shot upwards to play with his nipples. His hand circled John’s cock and stroked him with firm, quick twists of his wrist.

               Sherlock had him pushed against the back of the sofa, but in no way was John physically incapacitated. Therefore, it took him a minute to realise that his hands were free and for the shock of the sudden turn of events to wear off. With a soldier’s reflexes, he caught each of Sherlock’s hands in his own and turned his head to break the kiss, even though it damn near killed him. ( _Though in no way did he fault Sherlock, the stop and go physical side of their relationship was quickly reducing his sex drive to that of a teenage boy – it seemed as though his reactions were on a hair trigger, and it took little to reduce him to a horny fool, something which he hadn’t experienced since his Army days when the lads referred to him as ‘Three Continents’._ )

               ‘ _Stop_ ,’ John ordered quietly, keeping his eyes trained on Sherlock’s. Hurt briefly flitted across the detective’s face before it rearranged into a mask of impassive indifference. Pushing through the discomfort caused by being the reason for the look on Sherlock’s face, John leaned forward so that he and Sherlock were seeing eye to eye.

               ‘You don’t have to do this,’ John told him, trying to keep his nerve as Sherlock stared back, unblinking, ‘I know that it might have been expected of you when you were with- with him, but I don’t expect you to do anything right away, especially not after what you told-’

               ‘Dull,’ Sherlock cut him off, anger colouring his voice only slightly. When John looked at him questioningly, Sherlock pulled his wrists from John’s grip irritably and let out a low, frustrated growl.

               ‘I am quite aware,’ he snapped, ‘That I do not _have_ to do anything. Honestly, John, in all the time you’ve known me, have I ever done anything out of some sense of _obligation_?!’ He spat the word out as though it were profane, ‘This is why I told you that I didn’t want to talk about- about _things_. I am not a damsel in distress, and you are not a knight in shining armour. For the love of God, can I _please_ just give you a bloody _hand job_ and not have you try to turn this into some sort of psychological diagnosis? What else do I need to do to convince you that _I am fine_?!’

               John’s mouth fell open, and before he could stop himself, a giggle erupted from him and the next thing he knew, he was in peals of laughter, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Sherlock’s expression went from thunderous to baffled to concerned to amused all within a thirty second time span. John couldn’t help it – Sherlock was usually painstakingly precise with his words and grammar, and yet in the last twenty-four hours, John had, for the first time since he’d met him, witnessed him use the words _fucking_ , _bloody_ and _hand job_ in the heat of the moment, and it was so uncharacteristic of him that John couldn’t stop laughing. Apparently, along with the sex drive of a teenage boy, John had also developed the sense of humour of one as well.

               ‘Well if it amuses you that much, you can consider the offer rescinded,’ Sherlock said haughtily, and made to stand up and walk away, but John leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. Sherlock could feel the man’s smile against his face, and snorted with derision, but did not pull away.

               ‘Oh, love,’ John said, his voice strained with the effort of controlling his mirth, ‘If that speech there didn’t convince me, I don’t know what will. I would love nothing more than to snog you senseless right now and let you give me a _hand job_ ,’ he snickered, but quickly controlled himself as he took in the dark look taking over Sherlock’s features again, ‘But not on the couch, and not while you’re on your knees. My room, your room, you pick,’ Sherlock’s eyes lit up, ‘And when you’re done with the,’ he coughed to hide his laugh, ‘hand job, _I_ am going to give you a world class _blow job_.’

               Sherlock’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened with arousal. He leapt to his feet, grabbed one of John’s hands and began pulling him forcefully to his bedroom, barely giving John a chance to grab his undone trousers with the other hand to keep them from falling to the ground and tripping and killing them both.


	5. Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has subscribed, given kudos or commented.
> 
> I am thinking of changing the name to this story, but can't think of one at the moment. I came up with the name 'Dubious' when it was going to be a one shot, due to the idea of 'dubious consent' (I know, I know, completely lacking in creativity.) I already know what I'm calling the companion piece (which is about 3/4 done with the first chapter -- will hopefully be up soon!) You can subscribe to my Author Alerts (or whatever AO3 calls them!) if you want to be notified when it does finally go up! I want to come up with something similar for this one. If anyone knows any good quotes or song lyrics that you think fit the general feel of this fic, please pass them on!
> 
> Hope you enjoy Part V... I am thinking there will be two or three more parts before it's complete.
> 
> xx lilylashes
> 
> PS: Comments and kudos are my 7% :)

PART V

               Bliss.

               There was absolutely nothing in the world that compared to being engulfed in the _hotwetamazing_ that was John Watson’s mouth. Not alcohol, not cocaine, not even the Work.

               There had been an awkward scramble to Sherlock’s bedroom after John’s announcement in the living room in which they had very nearly been sent sprawling across the hallway when John lost his hold on his trousers and they fell halfway down his thighs, causing him to stumble and Sherlock to be jerked backwards since he had not released his iron clad grip on John’s other hand. Sherlock made quick work of the offending article of clothing, yanking them down viciously and throwing them in the general direction of the living room, John laughing all the while. Sherlock decided that John laughing was, without a doubt, the best sound in the entire world.

               That was, of course, until he heard John moaning his name as he writhed on Sherlock’s bed while Sherlock gave him the promised hand job. Sherlock had never before heard his name sound so fantastically, delectably dirty and arousing. His own cock stiffened at the sound.

               Somehow both men managed to strip down until they were completely nude, and then they were a tangle of limbs and tongues and hands as they crashed down onto the mattress. Sherlock wrapped his hand around John, relishing in the fact that John was wonderfully hard and heavy in his hand, and Sherlock used every bit of knowledge and skill he had ever accumulated to keep wringing those exquisite sounds from John’s mouth. He kissed and nipped and bit John’s lips, nipples, earlobes, and a short time later, John was coming in and by Sherlock’s hand. That fact alone was enough to bring Sherlock the rest of the way to hardness.

               If Sherlock was being truthful (to himself, at least, since there was no way he would ever confess this to John), he would admit that he had initiated things on the sofa as a test to himself, to see if he would be able to complete the act without another episode. He was so very pleased to see that not only was he able to perform and pleasure his lover, but that he did actually enjoy it as well. He could still feel the darkness pushed back into a corner in depths of his mind palace, and knew he would have to confront it again eventually, but for now he was pleased with the way things were progressing. Maybe that’s what recovery meant – overcoming the obstacles one moment at a time.

               Once John came down from his orgasm, he had rolled over and gently pushed Sherlock down against the mattress so the detective was stretched out on his back, and John could feast his eyes over every inch of Sherlock’s body. Once his eyes greedily drank in their fill of the gorgeous sight before him, he arranged himself between Sherlock’s legs and took his now fully erect cock in his mouth.

                              Sherlock was laid out on the bed, positively melting into the mattress. His fingers gripped the sheets, the headboard, John’s hair, anything to keep him tethered to this world. This was something new, something he’d never experienced before – Liam, despite thoroughly enjoying being on the receiving end of fellatio, had never felt the need to reciprocate, and Sherlock had never felt bold enough to ask it of him. Now he knew what he had been missing this whole time, and he could finally understand why Liam (and Liam’s… Associates) had been so keen for Sherlock to perform orally. This was pure, unadulterated _incredible_. Briefly he wondered what experiments could be derived from the experience – maybe something about higher brain function while having one’s sexual organs so wonderfully and thoroughly assaulted – but then John swallowed him down again.

               Clearly the experiment would be a failure.

               John moved so he was lying on his stomach between Sherlock’s splayed thighs, one hand circled firmly around the detective’s cock, the other one fondling his balls and stroking his thighs. He alternated maddeningly between licking, stroking and sucking with no rhythm or pattern that Sherlock was able to deduce, and that alone was enough to make him groan in delightful frustration. It was terrifying, how quickly his wits deserted him, and somewhere deep inside he smirked as he remembered the unimaginative jokes he had heard when he was a teenager about the human heart only producing enough blood to provide oxygen for one ‘head’.

               It was wet and hot and dirty, electric sparks short circuiting Sherlock’s brain entirely and he felt like he was on fire, like John was burning him alive. It was altogether spectacular, and Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest as he struggled to maintain some sort of composure and not come within the first thirty seconds. The noises that spilled from his lips were wanton and desperate and animalistic, and he had never in his life experienced anything so very _good_.

               John was very, very good at this.

               John was very, very good at many things.

               So many things….

               Coherent thought abandoned Sherlock as he could feel himself approach the edge of that beautiful and terrifying abyss that was release. John latched his mouth on to Sherlock’s cock and applied that delicious and treacherous suction that would be the death of him.

               ‘John…’ he sighed, his voice coming out hoarse and broken. The word was a plea, a prayer, a promise, and Sherlock felt utterly terrified.

               John’s eyes locked on to his and a hundred thousand thoughts and words seemed to pass between them. _Trust me. (I do.) Let me do this for you. (I’m afraid.) I’ll never hurt you. (I know.)_

_(I love you.)_

               The thought was an epiphany that hit Sherlock’s mind like a speeding meteor, and it was that thought that sent him spiralling down, down, down.

               He barely had time stutter out a warning of ‘ _John, I- I’m going to- I’m-_ ’ before he climaxed violently and threw his head back against the mattress. The last thing he felt was John taking him deep into his throat and then the world disappeared into blinding, white hot nothingness.

~~~~~

               Distantly, as his senses slowly returned to him, he became vaguely aware of John’s mouth slipping from his now soft cock. John, in an act of bizarre yet sexy (there was no other word for it) sentiment, kissed the head of it and then trailed kisses up Sherlock’s stomach, chest and neck until he came to the detective’s mouth and planted a firm and loving kiss across it.

               Sherlock tasted himself still on John’s lips, and the realisation made him let out another low, satisfied groan. He fought valiantly to keep his eyes open, but to no avail. He could feel John smirk against his mouth.

               ‘How do you feel?’ John asked teasingly, pulling away slightly to examine Sherlock. Sherlock’s hair was sticking up in random places where the detective had threaded his fingers through own hair and gripped tightly. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen from biting back moans. He looked entirely debauched and John decided he had never seen a more beautiful sight.

               ‘Inadequate,’ came the faint reply, and John’s heart dropped until Sherlock continued, ‘That was… Very good. I doubt I’ll be able to reciprocate quite so… That is to say, I don’t know if my skills are… Well, I suppose you know what I’m attempting to…’ his voice trailed off and John chuckled quietly.

               ‘You’re rambling,’ he informed Sherlock affectionately, ‘I’m going to assume that all that means you enjoyed yourself. It’s not often you’re rendered completely inarticulate.’ Sherlock opened one eye to glare at John, which only made him laugh again. He leant down to lay another kiss on Sherlock’s mouth and pulled back only until their noses and foreheads were touching. Sherlock regarded him sleepily, one eye still shut.

               ‘You are far from inadequate,’ John murmured quietly, running his nose across Sherlock’s and smiling when the detective crinkled his nose like a sleepy child, ‘And this is not a competition. I’m so very glad you enjoyed it, because I want to make you feel as amazing as you make me feel. Now go to sleep, love.’

               ‘Thank you, John,’ Sherlock said softly as he turned on his side and reached blindly for the duvet. John placed it in his outstretched hand, and Sherlock curled up, bringing the cover underneath his chin and letting out a contented sigh. Moments later, he pulled John down behind him and brought the doctor’s arm across his body so they were chest to back, completely wrapped around each other. John laid a kiss on the back of Sherlock’s head, breathing in the smell of Sherlock and smiling drowsily when the detective’s curls tickled his nose. There would be time later to address the fact that the last thing Sherlock needed to do was thank John for making him feel good, but for now John was happy to just sink into the approaching loose limbed, post-sex oblivion.

He held Sherlock tightly and just before he drifted off to sleep as well, he swore he heard the detective breathe ‘ _I love you, John_ ’, but it could have just as easily been his mind pulling him under into a wonderful, completely satiated dreamland.


	6. Part VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has commented, given kudos or subscribed. You make my day :)
> 
> This is Part VI, which is mainly here to get inside Sherlock's head a bit. I suppose I should warn that it's pretty dark and deals a lot with self-loathing and (self) victim blaming. Also non-graphic mentions of non/dub con and other general unpleasantness from Sherlock's past. 
> 
> I tried really hard to toe the line between letting Sherlock's thoughts take a dark turn, and turning him into a maudlin, self-pitying heap of useless. The way I see it in my head is that Sherlock never dealt with his issues regarding his difficult history with sex and an abusive relationship because he never felt like he actually *was* in an abusive relationship until many years after the fact. Therefore, opening himself up to the idea of a new relationship with John leaves him feeling unsettled -- he knows what it was like when he was with Liam, and that things were a bit not good, but he also knows that John is on an entirely different level in every way. Plus, now he's quite a bit older, quite a bit more confident, and quite a bit more cynical and self-sufficient than he was when he was 19-21. I can't see modern day Sherlock ever allowing himself to be so poorly treated, but I *can* see him as a lonely, desperate, confused and vulnerable young man, letting himself be mistreated because he doesn't know any other way to be loved. I can see those dark time and painful experiences shaping him into the 'sociopathic' Sherlock we know today. And now he has to deal with the shit storm of repressed memories and feelings that he let fester for fifteen years, which isn't easy for anyone, much less a man who detests the idea of 'sentiment'.
> 
> I am thinking that this story will wrap up soon, totaling out at between eight and ten parts. The 'experiment' will most likely continue, but not quite so clinically as before, since now all the cards are on the table.
> 
> I truly hope that you enjoy, and that the lengthy, depressing internal monologue(s) don't put anyone off too much.
> 
> xx lilylashes
> 
> ps: Comments & kudos are my 7% :)

PART VI

               As always, after the high, came the drop.

               Sherlock woke abruptly some time around three in the morning, the feeling of alarm mounting in his chest as he felt the heavy pressure against his chest of someone’s arm holding him in place.

               ( _Holding him down. Panic. Rising. Fight or flight. Mustgetout. Nononono notagain, sworeneveragain…_ )

               John let out a short snore and mumbled something incoherent in his sleep before smacking his lips twice and rolling onto his stomach, his arm still flung over Sherlock’s body.

               Relief. It was only John.

               ( _Only John, John who would never hurt him, who calls him_ brilliant _and_ amazing _and made him feel incredible as he shook apart at the seams and hurled into oblivion, who doesn’t mind that Sherlock doesn’t know how to love sweetly and slowly, because he’s only known fast and rough and greedy. John, who never expects more in return than a smile and a cup of tea, who wants Sherlock to open up and tell him about all the things that fester in the dark…_ )

               Sherlock silently and delicately extracted himself from John’s warm embrace, even though it killed him to do so. He wanted nothing more than to stay so carefully wrapped up in the comfort that was John, but he could feel the drop coming, and John didn’t get enough sleep as it is.

               ( _Yes, that’s what it was, the reason for retreat: John’s on-going battle with sleeping problems, not the fact that Sherlock didn’t know how to ask for help dealing with the long dormant emotions of emptiness and forced submission that he always associated with sex, even though he’d been more than willing with John, his John. Instead, now it was time to crawl away and hide and lick his invisible wounds. Once upon a time this would involve a syringe as well, but not now, not with a doctor under the same roof. John would be so disappointed, and Sherlock wants so desperately to please him._ )

               Feeling utterly worthless, and knowing, but not knowing why, Sherlock crept first to the bathroom where he roughly swiped a damp flannel across his chest and lower abdomen to rid himself of all traces of what had taken place on the other side of midnight, grabbed his dressing gown off the hook, and then traipsed down the hall to the living room. He perched tensely on his chair for a few minutes before letting out a frustrated groan.

( _The feelings inside him seemed to swell to something larger than he was, like a tidal wave crammed inside his chest, and pretty soon flesh and muscle and ribs would no longer be enough to hold them, and he would surely fall apart._ )

               He eyed the chair across from his, John’s chair, and after a moment’s hesitation, he stood and approached it with something akin to reverence. Feeling silly, somewhat undeserving, and altogether pathetic, he gingerly sat down on the seat and folded himself into the small space, relishing in the immediate comfort that hit him at the same time as the smell of John lingering in the fibres of the cushions. He spotted something hideous and oatmeal coloured near the left leg of the chair and reached down to pick up John’s very favourite and most horrible jumper. Sherlock brought the grotesque thing to his face, rubbed his cheek against the well-worn wool, and was instantly soothed by the familiar feel of something that was a perfect representation of John.

               For what seemed to be an eternity, he sat there, in John’s chair, with his face buried in John’s jumper, all the while staying on alert for any sign of movement in the rest of the flat. The last thing he wanted was for John to witness him at his most vulnerable. ( _The last thing he wanted was to_ be _so bloody exposed, especially since it was so unwarranted._ )

               Sherlock always hated these times more than anything else, the pitiful, contemptible, wretched drop. His first experiences with sex, with Liam, had been extraordinarily ordinary – fantastic and fun and absolutely enjoyable. Afterwards, there would be kissing and whispers and promises, and Liam would take Sherlock in his arms and they would drift off to sleep wrapped up in each other. It was romantic, something Sherlock had never thought he would appreciate, but truthfully, it was something he ended up enjoying quite a lot. Liam had been far more experienced than he was, which caused feelings of self-doubt and insecurity to surface that he’d never found reason to acknowledge before. Liam would smile affectionately at Sherlock’s embarrassed admissions and gently run his fingers through his dark curls and murmur reassurances about how he quite liked the fact that Sherlock was a virgin when they met, and that he had gotten to privilege of being his first. He’d even hinted that Sherlock appealed to him all the more _because_ he hadn’t been with anyone else, as though Sherlock’s lack of sexual experience at the age of nineteen was something that made him more attractive rather than abnormal.

               ( _Liam obviously hadn’t felt that way for long, though. By the same time the following year, he was bringing strangers home to fuck Sherlock because he liked watching, and Sherlock went along with it because he’d been so desperately lonely and eager to please. The true reason may or may not have actually been to cover Liam’s debts to his dealers – for the first time in his life, Sherlock had been unwilling to deduce it. He’d been too afraid of what he might find. And when Liam watched Sherlock in bed with another man, he gave him that look again – that look that said Sherlock was the entire world. It was the only time he gave him that look again._ )

               Even when things got bad with Liam day to day, at night, the sex was always prevalent, and Liam always made sure Sherlock came – even when it hurt, even when he bled, even when he was exhausted from entertaining however many men Liam happened to bring home with him at the time. It was because of this fact that Sherlock never felt like he could complain after the fact. Liam knew exactly what to do to bring Sherlock to an intense and gasping orgasm that made him pliable and dizzy afterward, and all Liam had to do was put his hand against the side of Sherlock’s face, or kiss him tenderly on the cheek, or huskily whisper ‘good boy’ in Sherlock’s ear for Sherlock to sigh and drift off into a deep, albeit dark, sleep.

               The drop came later, even though he hadn’t known what to call those feelings at the time.

               Waking alone the morning after Liam (and the many others who came package with Liam) did godknowswhat to Sherlock was always the hardest, the darkest, the times he felt himself closest to the edge of a complete mental breakdown. It was then that he felt every ache and bruise, saw the blood (and semen) dried on his sheets and body, and remembered that despite everything, he had still come to climax. How could he hate the sex and the pain so much, and yet still revel in the reward of a job (fuck) well done? Thus came the drop – the downward spiral of being worthless and frightened and unhappy and angry and guilty and altogether weak. It was weakness that caused his trembling, his silence, the downward cast of his eyes. The following day, he would be quiet and compliant, so desperate to please Liam, starving for any sort of praise or affection or even attention. He would have licked Liam’s shoes during those times for the faintest hint of a smile.

               ( _Sherlock had been in his mid-twenties, his relationship with Liam long past, when he first learnt of sub-drop. He’d been on a case involving a dead submissive, a framed dom, and a jealous ex-girlfriend. The dom had been accused of taking a scene too far, thus resulting in the sub’s death, but many former subs eagerly stepped forward to attest to the dom’s strict self-discipline and adherence when it came to safewords and limits, and contentious routine of aftercare. In the end, it was revealed that the dom’s ex-girlfriend had, in a jealous rage, set up a rather gory scene in the dom’s private playroom with the current submissive brutally murdered in the centre of it all. The case in itself was relatively dull, despite the grisliness of the crime, and the avant garde subject matter, but the part that stuck out to Sherlock the most was when one of the former subs described her typical sub-drop, and how the dom prevented it. She said that post-coitus, she would fall into a deep depression, sometimes shaking or just sinking into a daze. To counter this, her dom had always held her, wrapped her in a warm blanked and whispered reassuring words over and over until she came down from the subspace and could face the world again. Clearly a man who was this conscientious and devoted would not have neglected one of his subs, or have allowed a scene to go too far. The case was barely a four._ )

               The revelation that there was a word, an actual definition for what he felt had sent him plummeting down into a dark depression that was only permeated by the intravenous clarity that came with cocaine.

               The fact that this issue was again rearing its ugly head while he was in a relationship with someone who made him feel happier and safer and more valued than he had ever felt before in his life was frustrating beyond all reason. It was precisely why he deplored sentiment so much – being so emotionally vulnerable and close to the situation made it impossible for him to look at things logically. Rather, he could _look_ at things logically, but for some idiotic reason, his fool proof logic, and mental charts and graphs did nothing to staunch the flow of lamentable, hateful _feelings._

               Sherlock finally shook himself from his reverie when he felt he could contain his misery no longer, and the thoughts in his head caused his hands to shake. One hand still tightly fisted in John’s jumper, he rose from John’s chair and crossed the room to where the violin case leant against the wall near the windows. He carefully placed the jumper on the table closest to him and pulled his instrument from its case. Dazedly he lifted it to his chin, and brought the bow to the strings, not knowing what song he was intending to play, instead just letting his dreaded emotions stream from him through his still trembling fingers and across strings.

~~~~~

               John woke some time around six in the morning, the bed feeling cold around him. There was a strange aching in his heart that he didn’t quite understand, until he came to enough to hear faint strains of music wafting in from (presumably) the living room. The notes wrought forth from the violin were haunting and so very full of sadness that for a moment, John found it hard to breathe. They had clearly made their way into his subconscious, for he had gone to sleep completely content and satiated and exuberant, but waking to an empty room and haunting melody left him feeling strangely anxious and unsettled.

               Blindly, he reached for his jeans and pulled them on hurriedly, not brothering with any other clothing. As quietly as he could, he crept from Sherlock’s room, down the hall to the kitchen, finally stopping once he reached the entrance to the living room. Sherlock stood in his blue dressing gown with his back to John, gazing out the window with his violin propped against his chin.

               ( _He was breathtaking, a dark silhouette against the redorangeyellowpink of the sunrise that was just starting to make its presence known over Baker Street. He was all angles and lines – geometry at its finest. Rigid and unyielding like Gibraltar, flawless and heartbreaking like the statue David. The pain pouring from him, through his violin and into the silence was palpable. John had seen men who were barely more than boys bleed out in the desert sand with dry eyes and steady hands, but that one moment, standing in the doorway of his living room clad only in jeans with no shirt and no socks, the sight of Sherlock, so beautiful and broken undid him, and tears sprang into his eyes._ )

               ‘Sherlock…’ he breathed, the name passing over his lips like waves crashing against a jagged rock face during a storm. Sherlock didn’t turn, but John knew he heard because there was the slightest hiccough in the otherwise faultless music, and the faintest stiffening of Sherlock’s back.

               John crossed the room to stand beside his friend ( _not the right word. Lover maybe?_ ). Sherlock regarded him with tired eyes, and after a few more moments and strokes of his bow across the strings, lowered his violin. Though his face was impassive, his eyes were alight with a hundred different thoughts and memories and emotions, and John felt utterly useless. He brought his hand up to rest on Sherlock’s arm, hating the feeling of helplessness and incompetence.

( _He didn’t have the same way with words that Sherlock had, and even if his vocabulary had been as substantial as the detective’s, John doubted there was a word for the way his heart ached for Sherlock, for everything he’d been through. For the ice cold fury he felt for the bastard who’d tried his damndest to ruin Sherlock. For the love and promises and loyalty he felt towards Sherlock, that he dared not express at the risk of alienating the man with an overwhelming show of sentiment. For the self-loathing that came with being so unable to give voice to any of these feelings._ )

               And like the night before, all the things John wanted to say and do welled up inside him and swirled around his head until suddenly staying silent and immobile was no longer an option.

               John put his arms around Sherlock, pulling him into a tight embrace. Sherlock looked down at him in surprise, and John felt the tightening of the muscles in the detective’s arms as he clenched his fists against the neck of the violin and the bow, but he didn’t pull away. John tilted his face back, and Sherlock automatically leant down for John to sweep a kiss across his lips, one of his hands coming to rest at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

               ‘I’m so sorry,’ John murmured quietly against Sherlock’s mouth, ‘I would do anything for you, would take every memory from you if I could,’ he said between kisses, ‘You deserve so much more than what you had, so much more than that bastard,’ ( _Sherlock began to relax against John, the tension being drawn from him like poison from a wound_ ), ‘You deserve to be appreciated and I want to hold onto you forever,’ ( _John sighed as Sherlock began kissing him back, steady and unsure at the same time_ ), ‘You’re brilliant and gorgeous and-,’ ( _the words were tumbling from John’s lips now, all the things he wanted to say, vocabulary be damned_ ), ‘And I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much. I’ve always loved you, and I’m pretty sure I will always love you.’

               Oh. Well.

               ( _That was unexpected_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: This is not an all-encompassing description of sub-drop, and maybe won't make sense to some people because Sherlock was not in a BDSM situation, but for him, it's not the nature of the sex that triggers it, it's the climax. When he was with Liam, the climax came whether he wanted it to or not, which left him feeling confused and dirty and worthless on the occasions when sex was used like a weapon or punishment against him (this will be explored more in depth in the companion piece that should be posted sometime relatively soon. I think I just decided to change the POV of the whole damn thing, so it might take an extra minute. Feel free to subscribe to Author Alerts (or whatever AO3 calls it) if you are interested.) Sherlock calls his post-climax depression 'the drop' because when he heard the girl in the story describe her version of sub-drop, it finally made those feeling make sense.


	7. Part VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again :)
> 
> Along with posting Part VII, I also went back and did some light editing (mainly spelling, spacing, wording, etc.) on Parts I-VI. Hopefully things make a little more sense now.
> 
> This part mainly deals with Sherlock's one other relationship aside from Liam and John. The similarities between this one and what he's begun with John are alarming to him, and Sherlock, being as emotionally stunted as he is, really doesn't know how to deal with it.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, given kudos or bookmarked. As I said before, it literally makes my day when I get the 'donotreply' emails from AO3.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> xx lilylashes

PART VII

               When Sherlock was younger, his violin tutor had never really encouraged him to compose. She had been all about learning the fundamentals, the building blocks of understanding music, but hadn’t been too keen on Sherlock indulging his creativity and producing his own musical pieces. ( _After the insipid woman had been relieved of her position, Mycroft had strongly insinuated that her reluctance to allow Sherlock to compose had been because she knew his skill with the instrument to be superior to her own_.)

                It had been Victor, actually, who’d finally shown Sherlock how to put his thoughts and emotions to music when they’d met in the beginning of Sherlock’s third year at uni. Victor had been a student of the piano, and on one night when he and Sherlock had stolen a bottle of wine from his father’s wine cellar and curled up in plush blankets on his bedroom floor, he’d disengaged from Sherlock’s desperate embrace long enough to drag him over to his grand piano and played him the sweetest, saddest melody that Sherlock had ever heard. Once the last notes faded into a heavy silence, Victor, staring determinedly down at his hands resting on the now soundless keys, confessed that he’d written the piece for Sherlock.

               Victor Trevor had entered Sherlock’s life by chance, and had been roughly thrown from it by Sherlock’s own decision. While Sherlock’s reputation at uni had been that of the mad chemist with pseudo-psychic abilities, a too-perfect, partier boyfriend, and an on-again, off-again cocaine addiction, Victor’s had been that of the kind, quiet musician-slash-artist who came from a wealthy family, had a good relationship with his parents, made top marks, and spent his weekends either in the library or the local café where his work – both musical and artistic – were often on display. It was pure coincidence the day he and Sherlock met – they’d both been in the library, looking for some insignificant book or another, and (as if this wasn’t the beginning to every romantic book or film ever created), they’d both reached for the same book at the same time. Sherlock had drawn back immediately; he was already a year and a half into his relationship with Liam, and things had already taken a turn for the absolute worst. Victor, on the other hand, had reached out to hold Sherlock’s fingertips in the quietly confident way he always conducted himself, and ran his fingers over the callouses there. Sherlock had held his breath, and when Victor asked him if he played the guitar or violin, he’d briefly wondered if that was how the rest of the world felt when he revealed his observations in the same offhand but certain tone.

               Over the next few weeks, Sherlock found himself spending more and more time in the library. Victor was always pleased to see him, always smiled when he spotted Sherlock skulking conspicuously around his table, always wanted to know about his latest experiment, or asked his opinion about anything and everything. To describe the situation in the briefest and most accurate way possible: he was kind. He showed Sherlock a respect and kindness that no one had shown him in a very long time. Sherlock spent his afternoons and evenings shyly soaking up all the attention and consideration Victor bestowed upon him, and then would return home at night for Liam’s harsh words when he was sober, or rough hands when he wasn’t. On more than one occasion, Sherlock would purposely place one of the library books he’d taken out earlier in the day on the bedside table, and would focus on it, replaying the afternoon with Victor in his mind as Liam hurt him or fucked him or let his guests do the same.

               One day, after nigh a month of afternoons spent cautiously flirting, or evenings spent in serious conversation, Victor had invited Sherlock to the his favourite café where some of his artwork was being displayed. Eagerly, Sherlock had accepted the invitation, and together they made their way across campus. The evening was pleasant – many friends and peers came up to congratulate Victor on his achievements, and Victor wasted no time introducing Sherlock to each and every person he spoke to. It was strange, almost surreal, to be surrounded by so many people, and have them smile, and laugh with him instead of at him, and to not have a performance demanded of him, either with his deductions, like what was expected by Sebastian, or his other talents, like what was expected by Liam. It seemed that Victor was so well liked and respected, that any associate of his would be liked and respected by default.

               Sherlock had thoroughly enjoyed the evening with Victor, and when it was time for him to go, he rose to put on his coat and told Victor so. Victor had smiled, and excused himself from the group, bidding them good night, and he and Sherlock ventured out into the cool autumn night. They had walked in companionable silence until they reached the edge of the university campus, and it was then that Victor had stopped Sherlock and gently, always gently, pulled Sherlock into a strong embrace and leant in for a kiss.

               It was then that everything went to shit.

               Sherlock, who had not been expecting any sort of physical contact, let out an undignified and strangled cry, and stumbled backwards, the words ‘ _please’_ and ‘ _don’t’_ nearly escaping his lips, partially because his back was covered in welts and bruises from the night before, and partially because his body was viewing the sudden movement as an attack. He’d held himself together, but barely, as he tried to squelch the panic rising in his chest, unable to keep the low keening noises from emitting from his throat.

Victor had frozen. Victor had asked questions. Victor had been concerned, and Sherlock had ran.

               The next time he saw Victor had not been in the library. Victor had shown up outside Sherlock’s flat (which Sherlock had never given him directions to), with two steaming cups of tea and a determined expression on his face. They’d walked to and through the park in a tense silence, though Victor kept shooting nervous and worried looks at him until Sherlock finally admitted that he ‘ _had a boyfriend_ ’, and was ‘ _sincerely sorry for being misleading in any way_ ’, and assured Victor that he ‘ _understood that things between them couldn’t continue_ ’, and that Victor was ‘ _truly very talented_ ’ and Sherlock ‘ _wished him all the best_ ’.

               If Sherlock had been wise, the relationship would have ended then and there, however Victor was persistent, and Sherlock was so achingly miserable and once again lonely that, against his better judgement, he allowed things to continue once he realised Victor wasn’t going anywhere.

               Steadfast and sure, Victor had refused to be pushed from Sherlock’s life. Somehow he’d realised that Sherlock telling him he ‘had a boyfriend’ wasn’t just an explanation as to why he’d rejected Victor’s interest, but was a confession for the reason for the stiffness he sometimes walked with, the tension in his back and shoulders when he was approached from behind, the shadow that Sherlock was so used to hiding from the world, but Victor – ever the artist – could see lurking behind Sherlock’s eyes.

               One afternoon, once they’d returned to their usual routine of pretending to study in the library (only now they also pretended that everything was fine and normal between them), Victor had reached across the table and laid his hand over Sherlock’s and murmured that he ‘ _shouldn’t be ashamed for wanting someone to love him_ ’ and that Sherlock ‘ _deserved so much more_ ’. He’d said Liam was destroying Sherlock, which was endlessly ironic, because everyone else, including Sherlock’s own brother and mother, could only rave on and on about how Liam was such a saint for keeping Sherlock so grounded.

               Eventually Sherlock had given in to his own weakness, and became physically involved with Victor, while still remaining in a relationship with Liam. He wasn’t proud of it, and Victor had hesitated every step of the way. However, their time together was always slow and sweet, and Victor kissed Sherlock’s bruises and fucked him gently ( _Victor would always shift uncomfortably when Sherlock referred to their deeds as such, but Sherlock was no longer the naïve virgin who believed in the sentimental idiocy of ‘making love’_ ) and Sherlock could see Victor’s heart break a little more each time Sherlock rolled from his bed to return to his own flat.

               Things fell apart the night before Sherlock’s twenty-first birthday. Victor – patient, kind, gentle, attentive, _stupid_ Victor – had changed (ruined) everything when he’d said the words. As they’d lain side by side in Victor’s bed, Victor had looked over at Sherlock, and Sherlock hadn’t needed his skills in the art of deduction to notice the tears in Victor’s eyes and he heard the words before Victor verbalised them.

               _I think I’m falling in love with you._

               Fucking hell.

               Sherlock had all but leapt from the bed, blindly grabbed his clothes, and as he redressed with trembling hands, he’d picked a spot on the floor to concentrate on, and done the unthinkable. He broke Victor’s heart.

               Victor was never meant to love him, especially with he, Sherlock, was so unwilling to offer the sentiment in return. There was no way he could leave Liam, and there was no way Victor would be content to continue as they were. He would want more eventually, and for some stupid, foolish, sentimental reason, deep down, Sherlock still loved Liam. Despite everything, he still loved the bastard.

               Victor was the one who deserved so much more.

Sherlock left him, and refused to look back.

~~~~~

               And now there was John.

               Kind, patient, damaged, attentive, gentle, beautiful, _stupid_ John who said those same words, despite having seen the darkness that haunted Sherlock, the weakness he had so stubbornly kept at bay for almost fifteen years.

               The truly terrifying fact of the matter was that Sherlock had already reached the same conclusion himself, but to hear the sentiment vocalised, in so much the same way as Victor had done, was nearly too much.

               John was never meant to love him…

               (… _but he wanted John’s love so very much_.)

               John deserved so much better…

               (… _but the idea of John with someone else was abhorrent_.)

               For over a decade, Sherlock convinced himself that he no longer believed in the foolish notion of love…

               ( _…but if he had to try to believe in it for anyone, that person would be John._ )

               In the early morning light seeping in the windows from across Baker Street, John’s admission hung in the air between them, too quiet for an echo, but Sherlock seemed to hear the words reverberating against every wall of his brain. The silence was thick and stifling.

               Sherlock pulled back from John and backed away slowly, his violin and bow still held limply in his hands. Carefully, he returned his instrument to its case, and without another word, turned and walked back to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

 


	8. Part VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, hello there! It's been a minute, now hasn't it?
> 
> Apologies for the delay... Gah, half a year has flown by, hasn't it? In my defence, I was quite pre-occupied with, well, having a baby this past December. (Merry Christmas to me!) And then, of course, mommyhood has taken over any and all free time I might have had once upon a time. 
> 
> This chapter has been half-written for ages, and I have to admit: I kind of lost my train of thought halfway through, hence the awkward way it's come together, and shorter-than-normal length, but I figured the best way to move on is to force myself to carry on and get through the awkward pauses. Hopefully the next bit will flow more easily.
> 
> Thank you a hundred times to all those who haven't forgotten about me during my extended absence! It's been absolutely lovely to keep getting emails from AO3 every few days with new alerts from kudos and the occasional comment. You're all wonderful ;-D
> 
> Hope you enjoy this nonsense -- apologies again for the delay and the fact that I feel like this bit isn't quite up to par. I will try to do better next time.
> 
> xx lilylashes

PART VIII

John watched Sherlock storm off, regret already colouring his cheeks. Not regret over his feelings, obviously, but for the way he sprang them on Sherlock like a child shouting ‘boo!’ It didn’t take someone with Holmesian intelligence to understand that having a big emotional revelation while Sherlock was so obviously reliving some horror or another from his past, was only going to be (at best) with resistance, or (at worst) disdain. John surmised he was somewhere in-between. 

The worst part was that now he didn’t know what to do. Part of him – the idiotic, emotional part – had hoped that when he vocalised his feelings, Sherlock would be pleased. That daydream had involved Sherlock’s own assertion, possible some crying and quite a bit of kissing. Reflectively, that daydream may have been borrowed from the plot of one of those crap telly shows that Harry had been obsessed with when she was a teenager, but there was no way John was admitting to that.

( _That idiotic, emotional part of John was also selfishly, pathetically wounded_.) 

Luckily, that part was infinitesimal compared to the much larger part of John that was completely overcome with concern for Sherlock, and a growing need to go to him.   
From the back of the flat, John heard Sherlock come storming out of his room, but before he had a chance to so much as turn around, he heard footsteps stomping up the stairs, and moments later the bathroom door slamming shut. With a sigh, John settled himself into his chair, knowing that Sherlock was surely headed to the bathtub, and could very well remain there all day.

~~~~~

  
Sherlock slammed the bathroom door closed behind him, quite aware that he was behaving like a toddler in the throes of an epic strop. Truthfully, he really didn’t know what had him so incensed; there was no logical reason for the anger that he felt coursing through him. It was sparking and sizzling through his veins, his limbs practically vibrating with it, and the last time he had felt so wired was when he had been in the final stages of cocaine withdrawal. Surely a simple admission of love from a man who Sherlock himself had already come to the conclusion that he felt the same about was on an entirely different plane from something as traumatic as what he went through in the rehab Mycroft had sent him to, but the anger, helplessness and fear felt all too familiar.

Ah. Fear. And there it was.

The primal instinct of any animal when frightened was to lash out, bare its teeth, make itself seem bigger and roar and howl. Almost immediately after the realisation, Sherlock felt his anger dissipate into something deeper and darker. It was like tar was being poured down his insides, the blackness hardening and cooling over what was red-hot rage mere seconds ago.  
It wasn’t fear of John that had caused his outburst. Really, he towered over the doctor by a good half a foot. It was knowing that the idiotic notion of 'love' turned normally logical, intelligent, level-headed individuals into complete and utter fools, and made them act in ways they never would otherwise. 

( _The image of Liam's smug face as Sherlock literally crawled naked across the floor to him flashed across Sherlock's mind, but he shook his head violently to dislodge the image_.)

From a young age, the Holmes had taught their children that openly showing emotions was an act considered common and uncouth. Persons of a certain class were expected to show grace under pressure in all that they did.

( _The morning after Sherlock's last night with Liam, he sought refuge at his parents' home, only to be turned away at the door. Trembling and emotionally wrecked, he appeared on their front porch in the pouring rain and informed them of the end to his and Liam's relationship, finally allowing himself to admit he'd been hurt. Not understanding that his words referenced his physical pains as well as emotional ones, he was stopped from entering the home, reprimanded him for having ruined his chances with such a nice young man, and told that he should have known better than to become so emotionally and messily involved with Liam in the first place. Caring was not an advantage, and he should have learnt that by now. The door was closed abruptly, and he stood staring at the brass knocker for a full five minutes as the rain cascaded down his face before turning and walking (limping) away_.)

What would Mummy and Father think of him now, he wondered, if they were alive to see what he had become. To see her son so affected by events from decades ago would surely have had Mummy pursing her lips in distaste. Even Sherlock could admit how pathetic it was.

Sherlock started the tap for the bath, and watched the water for a moment as it rose higher and higher. Once he was satisfied with the fill level, he shrugged off his dressing gown and went to hang it on a hook on the back of the door, catching sight of his reflection as he turned. Though his appearance was generally abnormal at best (forehead too high, cheekbones too prominent, limbs too long and lanky, lips too oddly shaped), he felt especially unsightly today. He turned his face to the side, one hand coming up to examine the dark stubble coming in over his pale skin. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was in complete disarray. His lip curled in disgust.

( _There was a time in his younger years when he glowed with pleasure when he was called attractive. Liam called him beautiful the first time they met. It was the first time he'd been called anything but a freak after correctly deducing nearly everything about one of Sebastian's friends_.)

Sherlock found himself unable to tear his gaze away from his reflection. Every slight blemish or scar or unattractive feature might as well have been highlighted in neon ink. Sherlock had never considered himself an especially vain man, but somewhere deep down, he could admit to having once been a terribly insecure one. In some ways, insecure, pathetic, desperate-to-be-loved Sherlock still existed, and he hated himself for it. He stared fixedly at the mirror, his thoughts wandering as he absentmindedly ran his hand over the stubble on his chin.

( _One time Liam lined one wall of the bedroom with mirrors, and yanked Sherlock's head back as he fucked him from behind, the other hand circled around Sherlock's cock. He forced Sherlock to watch his own ravaged reflection, and just before he sank his teeth into the nape of Sherlock's neck, he growled, 'God, you're such a beautiful slut, Sherlock. Look at how much you love it.' He must have been right, because seconds later, Sherlock was coming, despite the ache in his arse. Liam had laughed, and then planted a kiss in Sherlock's hair, pulling him close for those few quiet moments after that made Sherlock believe that maybe Liam did love him after all_.)

There wasn't a single thing Liam could have done to him or asked of him that he wouldn't have given him. It was ridiculous and pitiful, but somehow seemed right at the time. Keeping Liam happy had seemed like the most important venture in the world. 

( _The first time Liam brought a stranger home to fuck Sherlock, (or rather, be sucked by Sherlock), Sherlock had attempted to refuse, but soon wore him down. 'Please, love', he'd begged, 'it would be so hot to take you from behind and watch you use that miracle of a mouth of yours as you come apart'. Sherlock studied him, but found no trace of deception, just arousal and pleading, and things had already become tense between them. Maybe allowing Liam this one fantasy would help get things back on track._

_It was as unpleasant as Sherlock had originally figured it would be. Having had no other sexual experience aside from Liam, he was unaccustomed to the little difference between sexual partners, and he found he did not care for it at all. The shape and texture of this new cock was all wrong, the hands that pulled his hair were too rough, and the semen that flooded his mouth when the incident was finally over was vile and bitter, and Sherlock gagged and spluttered before Liam and the stranger laughed and allowed him to go spit and rinse his mouth._

_He paused before reentering the bedroom, when he heard Liam say his name quietly to the other man (Sherlock never did bother to learn his name; it hardly mattered in the end). Whatever he said must have been amusing, because the stranger chuckled appreciatively, and said with a groan, 'Well, Harrington, I have to say: you might be a right bastard most of the time, but your taste is flawless. That boy is just as eager and gorgeous as you said,' he yawned, then repeated, 'Gorgeous'_.)

It was different, though, when John called him beautiful and gorgeous and all the other absurd adjectives John liked to throw his way. The words didn't seem dirty or cheap or like bargaining chips or insults. John, who was no wordsmith, seemed to be trying to pack as much unspoken emotion as he could into those simple words, and it made Sherlock feel very odd indeed. It was a strange tight feeling low in his belly, like intense vertigo or the burn from a first swig of whiskey, and then to have the word 'love' bandied around so unexpectedly was even more unsettling.

Sherlock realised he was now glaring into the mirror, and his hands were clenched into fists. The most frustrating, infuriating part of all was that, even fifteen years later, Liam still had an iron clad grip on so many aspects of Sherlock's life. He had allowed one man (for lack of a better term), to shape his life in ways that Mummy, Father, Mycroft, school and then some, had never been able to affect him. 

Sherlock wrenched his gaze from the mirror, redirecting it down to his now shaking fists. In that moment, he felt every bit the angry, confused young man he had been all those years ago, and he hated it. When he looked back up, he waited all of two seconds before pulling his fist back and shattering his own reflection.


	9. Part IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update before I go into work!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented on the last installment with their kind words! I appreciate them tenfold... The baby has been awesome ;-D
> 
> (Eeeks, five minutes to get out the door! More notes in the next update.)
> 
> xx lilylashes
> 
> PS: I started posting another fic for this 'verse called 'Say Something' (yes, based on the song by A Great Big World). It will be a series of letters detailing Sherlock and Victor's relationship from Victor's POV. Check it out if you feel so inclined!

PART IX

From the living room, John heard a muffled bang, followed by what sounded like a curse. It seemed that Sherlock was keeping up his streak of using atypical language, though John supposed profanity was the least of the unusual things that had taken place in 221B over the last few weeks. He debated for a few moments whether going to investigate the commotion would make things better or worse, but in the end sighed and made his way up the stairs.

He paused outside the bathroom door and knocked quietly. There came no reply, but from behind the door, John could hear heavy breathing accompanied by the occasional hiss of what sounded like pain. He listened for another few moments, his concern mounting, before he licked his lips and took a deep breath before calling 'Sherlock?' uncertainly through the door.

'Go away, John,' came the quiet reply, but it was followed by a groan that was most definitely masking, if not pain, discomfort.

'What's wrong, Sherlock?' John asked, his hand coming up to the doorknob. He gave it a rattle, but the damn man had locked himself inside. 'Sherlock, open the door this instant.' He tried the knob again, but to no avail.

'I said _go away_ ,' Sherlock snapped, just as John's temper did likewise.

'You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes,' John demanded angrily, 'Clearly something is bothering you, and clearly you've done something in there to injure yourself, so I suggest you open this door, or I will do it for you, and believe you me, Mrs Hudson will not be pleased.'

'The door is solid wood, and the rain has been making your joints ache. Even at your best, you would have a hard time knocking it down, so I suggest you don't bother trying, and do as I say and _leave_. _Me_. _Alone_!' Sherlock barked through the closed door, and John could hear him pound his hand on the sink basin with the last three words. Another grunt of pain followed. John threw up his hands in surrender and turned back down the stairs, shouting ' _Fine_!' behind him as he went.

John knew Sherlock was just acting out, like a child does when he is embarrassed or upset, but that didn't stop him from a few minutes of angry pacing before the windows in the living room. All the pent up emotions from the past few days seemed to swell up within him and he finally realised how very exhausted he really was. His anger abating, he collapsed in his chair and, as always, sat waiting for Sherlock to come to him.

If there was one thing that was true, it was that John Watson would always, always wait for Sherlock Holmes.

~~~~~

It was about another hour yet that John waited, dozing on and off until he heard the bathroom door open, and he turned to see Sherlock emerge, his hair still wet, and his skin slightly wrinkled. Sherlock approached him warily, and with stilted movements, took his seat in his chair opposite John. It was only then that John saw that Sherlock was carrying John's medical kit, and that he had wrapped a small towel around his hand.

Wordlessly, John left his chair and went to kneel before Sherlock, taking the detective's hand in his own.

With careful, practiced fingers, John unwound the towel from Sherlock's hand, and felt his stomach lurch as he saw the many lacerations across the detective's fist. As he moved it from side to side in front of his eyes, he saw little pinpricks of light reflected back at him that could only be embedded glass shards. Sherlock's hand was already swelling, and some gentle probing revealed bones that were, at the very least, fractured in several places. Inwardly, he hoped this would not affect Sherlock's ability to hold a violin bow, lest it make the man even more insufferable. He held out his own hand to Sherlock, and waited to be handed his tweezers and a strip of gauze.

He worked in silence for a few moments, concentrating on pulling the glass from Sherlock's flesh without slicing his hand further, placing the bloody slivers of glass on the now red gauze until he could take the heaviness no longer. This was nowhere near the most ghastly injury he had tended to for Sherlock, but it was the first time it had been entirely unavoidable and under John's watch.

'Care-' he cleared his throat and began again, 'Care to tell me what happened this time?' he asked, trying to keep his tone as light as possible. Sherlock glanced down at him stoically and took a deep breath. John didn't rush him, just set the final touches on the bandages he wrapped tightly around Sherlock's hand.

'I broke the mirror,' he said flatly, his chin jutting out defiantly. John regarded him carefully, in the way that only he knew how. Anyone else would have missed the way Sherlock's jaw clenched slightly, and the pulse jumping in his throat from -- was that fear? Fear of what, though? Surely not retribution. But the longer John stared at Sherlock, the stiller the other man became, until John found himself watching a stone still statue of tightly wound muscle braced for -- John didn't even want to think of it.

'Well,' he said slowly, 'I never really cared for that mirror anyway. While I'm sure it was fine for you, I could barely see myself in that thing. I've been meaning to ask Mrs Hudson if we could replace it with something larger and lower over the basin anyway.'

Sherlock nodded and relaxed ever so slightly, but continued to avoid John's gaze. 'I will arrange for something more suitable for you to be installed some time this week. I... I apologise, John, I did not mean to lose my temper with you earlier,' he said, the faintest traces of a waver in his voice. John frowned; Sherlock did not waver. Sherlock was one of the surest and unapologetic individuals that John had ever met.

It was then that he understood that when Sherlock had shattered the mirror, something had also broken within him. Again, his familiarity with PTSD rose to the surface of his mind, and it seemed to him that Sherlock was suffering some sort of regression, but he felt utterly unequipped to handle it.

Awkwardly, he brought his hands up to Sherlock's face, trying with all his might not to react when he saw the slightest flinch as he did so. He cupped Sherlock's face and stared straight into those impenetrable eyes. Sherlock's breathing sped up an almost infinitesimal amount, and he focused his gaze just below John's eyes. Anyone but John Watson would never have noticed.

'Sherlock, I'm not angry with you. I'm just concerned about you. I want to help. Please, talk to me about what happened,' he said carefully, doing his best not to sound condescending, but apparently failing, because just as quickly as the insecurity flitted across Sherlock's person, the detective's trademark arrogant persona slammed back into place, and Sherlock pulled away from his touch and straightened his posture

'Thank you, John, but at this time I do not require your assistance,' he said bitingly, 'When this all began between us, I informed you that I was willing to divulge parts of my history with you as a courtesy, but I warned you not to expect full disclosure.'

'I'm not asking for every gory detail, but after I told you I loved you, you stormed off, locked yourself in the bathroom, shattered a mirror and, by the looks of things, fractured several bones in your hand as well as sliced the shit out of your knuckles. Don't you think we should discuss at least some of that? Don't you think you owe me at least that much?' John protested in frustration, his temper once again rising.

All wrong, he was doing this all wrong, and apparently Sherlock agreed with him because those grey eyes narrowed dangerously, and he leapt to his feet, towering over John as he remained kneeling on the ground. 'I was not aware we were keeping a tally of deeds owed,' Sherlock said coldly, as he glared imperiously down at John, 'If we are going to start keeping score, perhaps we should begin with the fact that when we met, you were a shell of a man with a psychosymatic limp and suicidal tendencies that your therapist was too thick to pick up on. Or the fact that until I started bringing you along on cases, you were flailing around uselessly in that horrid bedsit, doing a whole lot of nothing with your life. John,' Sherlock laughed cruelly, 'Are you really so desperate to be needed that you feel the need to force someone to give you their confidence? I mean, the blog is bad enough, but-'

John didn't hear the rest of Sherlock's words, because at that moment, he squared his shoulders and, walked calmly out of the flat, knowing that in some cases, the best thing a soldier can do is retreat.

~~~~~

Sherlock watched John walk out, his cool sense of surety fading with John's footsteps. He didn't know what possessed him to say such awful things to his friend (not the right word). It was just that when John started mentioning things owed, all Sherlock could see was Liam shouting at him about how much Sherlock owed him, and something inside him had snapped, and as the words flew from his mouth, he knew he was snapping at the wrong person, but could do nothing to staunch the flow of vitriol.

( _After all the shit I put up with from you, y_ _ou owe me, you ungrateful bitch! I'm the only one who would even try to love you. God! The only reason anyone else would ever even want anything to do with you is because they know what a fucking slut you are!_ )

And now John was gone. He'd left before when Sherlock was being difficult, surely, but always with a terse comment about 'needing some air' or some other vague nonsense. He'd never stormed out without looking back the way he just did. Sherlock was acting like a melodramatic teenager, and it seemed that there was nothing he could do to stop it, because each time he internally told himself to get a grip, he ended up causing more problems.

( _God, what the fuck is the matter with you? You must love it when people think there's something wrong with you, Sherlock; why else would you act like such a fucking dick all the time? You're lucky I even put up with you. Don't know why I bother; you're hardly worth the effort_...)

No, no, no. This was nothing like that. Sherlock shook his head angrily, his fury only growing when he felt tears prick his eyes. What in the hell was coming over him? Something inside was crumbling deep within his Mind Palace, from one of the deepest, darkest dungeons, and there was nothing he could do but watch his carefully constructed walls come down.

Over fifteen years ago, Sherlock had made the conscious decision to change all things about himself. He'd carefully cultivated and sculpted his 'sociopathic' persona because sociopaths don't feel anything for anyone. Better to be cold than to allow one's self to get burned, and this way of living had suited him very well. Until John. And now John was gone.

The last vestiges of the foundation of the barriers repressing his memories gave way, and all those horrid things he'd kept at bay since his twenty-first birthday swept in to drown him. Finally exhausted of treading water to stay above the tide, he allowed himself to be swallowed.

He did not resurface.


	10. Part X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God. So it's only been almost two years since this damn thing was updated... Sorry about that. It's been so long since I updated that I literally forgot how to upload anything on this site. That was embarrassing.
> 
> Somehow all the days just ran together, and slipped away from me. A LOT has happened since then... A few chapters ago, I mentioned that I'd had a baby girl in 2013. Yeah, she's over two years old now. And -- surprise! -- I had ANOTHER baby in the meantime. Good Lord. He's just over five months now, and pretty much the happiest baby that you ever did see. So, needless to say, with two under two, writing (and most other things) have taken a backseat. However, I did just purchase a new computer (an iMac, and it is AWESOME!), so my goal is to do some more writing once I figure it all out. 
> 
> Thank you times a million to everyone who has continued to follow, read, comment, email, and leave kudos during my embarrassingly long absence.
> 
> Hope you are all well, and that you enjoy this installment.
> 
> xx lilylashes
> 
> PS: I am changing over some of my contact info, but will post all the final links once I decide what domains I am using.

PART X

John stormed from the flat, his anger nearly palpable, but by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, his rage was almost completely replaced by a hot, uncomfortable feeling of foolishness. It was far too dramatic for a grown man to sweep from a rooming a huff, like a heroine in those daytime crap telly shows Harry loved so much when they were growing up. (John chuckled to himself at this thought, because dramatic exits were one of Sherlock’s trademark moves, but somehow it didn’t seem quite as ridiculous when he did it. It was more like… That was just Sherlock being Sherlock.)  
  
Too embarrassed to make the walk of shame back into the flat just yet, John decided to check in on Mrs Hudson. She was always a sympathetic ear when Sherlock was being especially difficult, and had no doubt heard the row between them earlier, so he might as well face her worry and questions sooner rather than later.  
  
He rapped lightly on the door of 221A, and entered quietly after he heard Mrs Hudson’s cheery greeting.  
  
‘Oh, hello, dear,’ she called from the kitchen, ‘Come, sit down. You’re just in time for tea. I even have those apricot biscuits you like so much.’ She pulled a second mug and saucer from the cabinet just as John got to the kitchen. He hesitated in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame. Mrs Hudson made a ‘tsk tsk’ noise, and threw one tea bag into each mug.  
  
‘Yes, I heard your disagreement,’ she said pointedly, ‘I figured one of you would be down here to talk about it, which is why I put the kettle on. Now come in and sit down, and tell me all about it,’ she ordered gently, gesturing to the chair across the table from her.  
  
‘Thanks,’ John said awkwardly, as he sat down. He sighed, unsure of how much he should divulge to Mrs Hudson, nor how much she was aware of Sherlock’s history.  
  
‘So what was it this time, dear?’ Mrs Hudson asked, ‘Fingers in the broiler again? Oh, the smell it left last time!’ She shook her head, an expression both of disapproval and fondness on her face.  
  
‘No, I think he’s learnt his lesson about shoving body parts in the oven, believe it or not,’ John replied, grinning at the memory of Sherlock’s disgusted face when the baking sheet full of human fingers had caught fire in the oven, and stunk up the entire flat for weeks. His smile faded as he remembered the real reason he was there, and sighed again, ‘We’ve been… Discussing Sherlock’s history,’ he admitted carefully, ‘Some of it is… A bit not good. And I know that if he would just talk about it with me, we could at least come up with a plan of some sort to help him move on from it. I mean, I know I’m no professional, but I just want to help him get better. Instead, he lashes out at every turn. He says he doesn’t need or want my help. He goes off to sulk, and oh,’ John said sheepishly, ‘We owe you a new bathroom mirror. He, uh, had an incident with it this morning.’  
  
‘Oh, Sherlock,’ Mrs Hudson murmured sadly, ‘I did like that mirror, too. My Aunt Sissy gave that to me for my wedding.’ She sniffed, and sat back in her chair, her hands both wrapped around the warm mug of tea. She observed John for a long moment.  
  
‘John, did I ever tell you how Sherlock and I met?’ she asked quietly. John thought for a long moment.  
  
‘No, actually,’ he replied after some time, ‘Sherlock did mention some business about your husband and his, uh, death, but never told me the whole story.’  
  
‘It was the summer of 1997,’ Mrs Hudson said, ‘I was living in Florida with my late husband. He was taking a lot of trips to those little islands off the coast… What are they called? Oh, the Bahamas! He was involved with some serious business down there. To this day, I’m not quite sure what, I just did typing of invoices for bananas. I never thought to question him when he brought me documents for filing, though I do remember wondering who on earth needed so many pounds and pounds of bananas. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure ‘banana’ was code for ‘cocaine’, but that’s neither here nor there,’ she waved her hand dismissively, ‘Anyway, one night, this young man comes pounding at our door. It was pouring out, but one of those hot rains in Florida, that seem to go on forever. I was sitting in the parlor, just watching the rain fall and fall. So I went to open the door, and there’s this boy, pale as a ghost, and alarmingly thin, standing there in the rain without even a jacket on. He asks for my husband, who was away on another one of his trips at that time. I told him that he was unavailable, and asked him to come in to dry off, and have a warm cup of tea. I think it was my accent that surprised him, really, because what are the odds of meeting another Brit in Florida of all places. He tried to refuse, but I’m afraid to say I was rather insistent. When he finally did come in, he sat straight as a rail on the end of the sofa, like he was likely to run out the door at any second. He was calling himself William at that time,’ Mrs Hudson chuckled, ‘I thought ‘how funny for such an unusual boy to have such a common name’. Anyway, after about ten minutes, he seemed to calm down a bit, but he kept looking around the room, like he expected someone to jump out at him. When I asked him if he’d like to take his clothes off for me to dry, he looked as though he might faint. Instead he sat there, soaking my sofa, and letting his tea get cold, until the most curious thing happened.’  
  
John leaned forward, completely engrossed in Mrs Hudson’s story. A twenty-something Sherlock, living in America, and going by the name ‘William’ was almost too difficult to imagine. ‘What was that?’ he asked curiously.  
  
‘This sodden, trembling boy on my sofa looked at me and said, ‘does he know?’. I was so surprised and confused. He had said maybe two words before that, one of which was his name. ‘Does who know what?’ I asked. ‘Does your husband know you lost the baby?’ he replied, calm as ever, ‘Though you weren’t very far along. Seven or eight weeks, was it? Not even enough time to really be calling it a baby. A fetus, really.’,’ Mrs Hudson stopped speaking and took a deep breath, ‘He was right, of course, I had been pregnant, but earlier that week had experienced cramping and heavy bleeding, and I knew the baby had passed. My husband hadn’t even known I was pregnant in the first place. I hadn’t seen him since, well, since the point of conception. We spoke on the telephone, but it wasn’t something I dared tell him. He never wanted children,’ she said sadly, ‘I always wanted a house full of babies, and to raise my family out in the country, but he had other ideas. I had gotten pregnant once before, and oh, was he ever furious. He… Well, he ended the pregnancy, and though I never asked about it, I’m sure it was from that incident that caused me to never be able to carry a baby to term. Somehow this boy got the entire story out of me, and before I knew it, I was sobbing in the parlor, all tears and emotions all over the place.’  
  
John didn’t know what to say. He had always suspected that Mrs Hudson’s husband hadn’t been the best husband in the world, but he’d never expected that he’d been abusive. Mrs Hudson didn’t show any of the signs of a domestic abusive survivor, or PTSD, or any of that. He opened his mouth to offer some sort of… Condolence, maybe?, but Mrs Hudson barreled on.  
  
‘So there I am, weeping like a baby on the sofa, in front of this complete stranger. I was terribly embarrassed, but couldn’t seem to make myself stop until that boy came and sat beside me. He very hesitantly pulled my hands from my face, and without any trace of humour or insincerity asked me if I wanted my husband to pay for what he’d done. He said he knew someone very powerful back home who could make it happen, and that I would never have to worry about him laying a hand on me ever again. He’d known me for all of an hour, but he was so fierce with his words that I believed him. By the end of the year, my husband was incarcerated, tried, and put to death by lethal injection. I never imagined that he would ever get caught for anything, much less that he would be executed, and in such a short amount of time, but that boy made it happen. And for the first time in over thirty years, I was free.’  
  
‘I had no idea,’ John said honestly after Mrs Hudson finished speaking, ‘Honestly, I didn’t. I knew Sherlock had a hand in your husband’s sentencing, but never… Never the full story.’  
  
‘Of course not, dear’ Mrs Hudson replied, waving a hand dismissively, ‘It’s certainly not a story I trot out at dinner parties. Anyway, when all was said and done, I asked Sherlock (he’d told me his real name by then — or rather, the name he preferred to go by) why. I asked him why he’d taken such an interest in me, why he even bothered to listen to my blithering, much less do something about it, and I will never forget how deathly quiet he became. He stood before me, still as a statue, before making that funny frown face he does when he doesn’t quite understand his own humanity, and told me ‘because you were kind. And because I never had anyone who could have intervened and ended my suffering in such a permanent way’. I always wondered what ‘suffering’ he referred to, but he never brought it up again. When I moved back home, after my husband’s death, I immediately purchased this building with the life insurance policy, and offered Sherlock the flat upstair, but he never took me up on the offer. Until he met you, of course.’  
  
John didn’t know what to say. He had seen Sherlock’s protective attitude towards Mrs Hudson, but had always assumed it was because he saw her as a surrogate mother type figure. It made his heart ache to know now that it came from having been through the same trials as she had, and not some lighthearted nostalgia (though truly, he should have known better than to think anything involving Sherlock could be so simple.)  
  
‘I just don't know what to do now,’ John admitted helplessly, ‘He keeps shutting me out. He doesn’t want my help. He doesn’t want me to know all of what happened, and I know that’s probably for the best, but I just want to be there for him. I want to help him get better,’ he said again, knowing how pretentious and childish he sounded.  
  
‘Oh, John,’ Mrs Hudson said sympathetically, taking one of John’s hands in her own, ‘You of all people should know: we are never ‘better’. We only learn how to live side by side with our experiences.’  
  
John nodded silently, wishing more than ever that one thing — just one — with Sherlock could be simple.


End file.
